Love Is Tainted
by AKimiB
Summary: He doesn't exist beyond the fence... Maybe it would better if she didn't either. Alternate Universe, Male!Crona IN PROGRESS (CroMa)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people.

**Author's Note(It's a little long, sorry!): **_Okay, first and foremost, Crona is a MALE in this fic. Please, no arguing! (My reasoning is at the end of the chapter!) _

_This is my first time writing in present-tense with stream-of-thought flow... I'm pretty much dappling in different styles. Please be kind, I'm still really new at this writing thing(even with a few stories under my belt.) _

_Characters will most likely be a bit OOC because this fic will be dealing with some pretty dark times, bitter feelings, AU-ness, etc... It will be vulgar, probably won't have a whole lot of heartwarming fluff-stuff and could __possibly be a trigger for those susceptible to self-harm/kleptomania/substance abuse/sexual abuse trauma, and , possibly other things, too... I don't agree with/condone/endorse/approve of some of the things this story will contain. __**Proceed with caution, please. **__AND/OR! You may end up finishing this story and say to yourself, "What the hell did I just read?" I'm just being honest._

_ As always, I would love to hear your thoughts, constructive criticism, anything as long as you are not blatantly rude. END OF SUPER LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE! Heeyyyaahhh!_

**Chapter 1:**

It's hot, just like every other day in this God forsaken place.

The waxy, green speckled branches sway with blasts of burning wind, casting vain shadows over her. It doesn't soothe Maka in the least as she turns another page of her -questionable- reading. Half-lidded emerald eyes lazily soak in the words as her blonde locks dance in the sweltering gusts. Heaving a sigh, she closes the tattered paperback and rubs a palm over her face.

Not even the mediocre cooling effect of sweat is awarded.

No, in the desert, landlocked and swept away from most water sources, you bake internally. Humidity is a luxury not provided and Maka grumbles, admitting her defeat. Moving drained, heavy limbs to stand, dry grass crunches beneath her feet as she wanders across the grounds of the park. Painted in jade and vibrant colors, so lively, it baffles the mind how dead everything feels.

Even her.

Especially her.

She passes through the ebony-barred gates, attending the sidewalk leading deeper into town.

Fingers fidgeting with the zipper of her simple cloth bag, Maka fishes her bottle of warm water from the bottom; gripping the flimsy plastic, uncapping and grimacing as the liquid slides down her throat, lubricating but failing miserably at quenching her thirst. It seems that that is something that can never be tamed.

Thirst.

Heat.

Death.

This is Death City, after all. Maybe or maybe not in such a literal sense. But, it sure feels like it.

Crowded streets packed with the bustling bodies of young and old, noxious with suffocating perfumes and cologne, or body odor of those less cleanly, invades her senses as she fights her way through the blurred commotions.

Nothing is deserving of her immediate attention. Nothing interesting enough to change her mind. Just a mindless stroll through the colliding currents of rushing limbs, torso walls and bad attitudes. All parting, making way for her. Their faces seem to mesh with her movements, streaming with one another, as they all wear the same revolted and perturbed look.

Loose pebbles from the pavement scrape beneath Maka's worn sneakers; she can feel each jagged edge as they roll beneath the balls of her feet with each new step. Conditioned to pay no mind, she continues to dodge and weave their stares without emotion swiftly through her route.

Robotic. As if she was programmed for that very purpose.

Too soon does she find her way to the door of the house that she resides.

Not a home, that was broken long ago.

Her teeth are grit, grinding against each other as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Reaching for the warm metal, she twists the device and forces her entry. The creaking echoes from the threshold and throughout the empty, near-barren rooms and air leaves her in disappointed shuddering spurts.

Every time. Every damn time, she hopes beyond reason.

Hopes that her father is home and her mother is smiling at her, peeking from around one of the corners.

But, that will never happen. Their family is broken, just like her home.

Maka bows her head as she steps into the house fully, sliding the door shut behind her. Slipping her shoes off of her aching feet, she lets the tile cool the hot soles as they pad in tandem down the hall and into her room.

Mechanical.

Every other day she does the same. The very same routine she held when everything was as it should be. But, just doing the same thing doesn't change what happened, nor the aftermath; the outcome.

There is nothing in this room aside from a mildew-riddled, mold-infested outfit, an already wrecked pair of shoes, and a mattress. They took everything.

Creditors, theives, her mother, her father.

She's not even supposed to be here, but really... Where the hell is she supposed to go?

Her father is hanging on by a thread in the hospital, fighting viruses and diseases that he contracted while ruining her family. Her mother left, probably heartbroken, ashamed and afraid... Infected.

In the middle of the night, no less.

Hollow emerald stares out at the ray of pale yellow light that flows in from the window pane. Dust swaying in a taunting dance, floating in the air all around as she absently runs her thumb pads over the old mattress' stitching.

It's almost comforting really. To think that the rooms, the air, halls are filled with these particles. That she isn't alone here.

No, that's just silly. She shakes her head and limply falls back on the small pad with a groan. Toddler sized, but it does the job to keep her off of the floor. She was lucky to find it before the trash men came, her neighbors were none the wiser.

Lips twitching in a bitter smile, she closes her eyes and inhales deeply; the stale, stagnant oxygen fills her lungs in grainy, unsatisfactory pulls.

Sleep and reading. They are all she has now. This house will be taken soon and then... She may not even get that much, often.

Slowly, Maka lets her mind go, surrendering to the delicious numbing fog as the darkness surrounds her. Engulfing her. Only one thought left lingering as her mirthless chuckle morphs into soft snoring.

What's next?

O.O.O

"Papa." Clipped and emotionless is her one word greeting as she slips on her paper mask and into the cold room. Disinfectants sting at her shielded nostrils and the beeping of monitors assault her ears.

Why does she even come here? It's not like he's strong enough to hear her or even in his right mind enough to understand the word she speaks.

That's right, one word.

Maka has tried to talk about her day, attempted to inform this living corpse of the financial issues and other various troubles... But, the last time she did that, she had to be physically removed from the premises by a douchebag in a hazmat suit.

It's his fault, don't they know?!

She won't even approach him anymore. He just stays there, prostrate, staring but not seeing with those unfocused, glassy eyes; sunken and sagged, blinking, but nothing more.

Maka deserves more, right?

It's infuriating. He's infuriating.

She growls under her breath, letting the gust from the air conditioner wrap her body in its pleasant frigidity as she plops herself into the stiff cyllindrical chair. Pulling the book from the folds of her bag, her fingers flip through the pages gently.

This is her baby, her world to escape the one of reality.

And, it's her last one. The only one that she managed to hang on to. Sure, there is a library... But, in there they look at her funny and besides, her mother helped her pick this one out. Whether it's stupid to hang on to it or not is irrelevant. You can't reason with your own feelings or attatchments when they run this deep.

Finding where she left off last, she sinks deeper into the unforgiving cushions, losing herself once again. Because, within the paragraphs and chapters, strung words and perfectly composed dialogues... she can.

Maka's orbs soften and glaze as she takes in what used to be her favorite scene: a declaration of undying love, the protagonist's determination to go to the ends of the Earth, fight both the forces of Heaven and Hell to protect it. If only such a thing were real. If only people would really cherish such a thing.

But, it is only a myth. Divorce reigns, infidelity more rampant than not.

If love was truly real, wouldn't these things simply not exist? If everyone is so capable of such a thing, why is the real world so revolting?

It isn't real. It's only a fantasy. A mere fabrication of the minds of dreamers and idealists.

A sad sigh passes her downturned lips as she closes the book, running her fingertips over the flimsy cover. A couple of darkened spots soaking into the battered sheet glisten under the bright lights of this sterile room. Maka pauses, bringing a hand to her cheeks.

Hot and soaked. She's crying again... Fantastic.

Her brows furrow as she studies the moisture on her digits, and then, she sees him.  
Laying there, helpless, between the spaces of her spread fingers.

Her father, Spirit; gaunt and pallid, wheezing with help of a respirator behind clear plastic curtains. Tubes and needles piercing and passing through his flesh; liquids being pumped into his body, coming out into his hidden colostomy bag and catheter. Maka's eyes harden, narrowing at the sight. Her arm falls.

That, right there, is the epitome of love in the real world.

Living death. Pain. A sour fable.

Ha! Maybe love isn't fake after all. It's just not what everyone believes it to be.

She scoffs, scowling as she pushes herself up from the seat. Shaking her head, she lays the novel on the seat with care. Taking off her shoes, she pats across the bleach-sticky vinyl floor into the bathroom.

At the very least, she has something to look forward to when coming to this place.

She opens the heavy door, flipping the switch and flinches from the blaring bulbs reflected and doubled in intensity by the rectangular mirror.

"Fucking hell!" Sheilding her face with her forearms, Maka hisses as she steps into the small room, letting her eyes adjust.

She avoids the mirror; she always hates what she sees.

Her clothes come off a piece at a time, mask on the countertop, the rest gets hung from the shower rod in hopes that somehow they will take the steam and miraculously be cleaned. As if the grime would simply melt off.

It's been a while since she's had clean clothes, or water and electricity at her house. A month or so, actually.

The showerhead sprays forcefully and she steps into the pluming fog. Falls of hot water pelt her scalp and back in scalding sheets that she gasps at.

A moment of blissful relaxation before she has to face yet another day.

Tension wound so tight within her muscles loosen as the water massages them, beating the kinks and knots out of her. The rough hospital rag hangs loosely in her fist as she empties another small bottle of soap onto it.

Maka's face stings as she passes the washcloth over her cheeks, her eyes remain closed. Squeezing shut and even tighter as she moves lower. Her chest, arms, torso, legs; scrubbing herself at the surface until she's pink, almost completely raw.

She grinds her teeth, tears stinging, welling behind the lids as she collapses in on herself, beneath the spray.

If they were falling, they were masked with the droplets from the polished pipe. Shuddering sobs wrack her rosy naked form as she clings to her knees, burying her burning face, muffling the embarrassing sounds that she's emitting.

It's not fair. Her mother, she didn't deserve what she got for -supposedly- loving a man. Maka didn't deserve this abandonment. They both did this, and yet... she's at just as much fault. If only she would beg more, then would she finally get assistance? Crawl on her knees, pleading for mercy, even with all that circumstance has handed her?

The scalding rivers flowing down her hunched body feel nice, as if all her problems are eroding, whisked away; swirling, down into the drain. But, things don't happen like that, do they?

Maka sniffles, as her eyes pour out the sorrow that she refuses to show others. She's stubborn, prideful, she knows she is. So, it took nearly all she had just to ask for help, to explain it all without losing her hard-earned composure...

She was pushed away, denied. Her dignity can only take so much abuse before it snaps, it's already at it's breaking point. The shelters had no room for her, her friends politely retracted their help -and their company- with news of her parent's 'condition.'

As if she were defective. She's clean, damnit! Well, at least, when it comes to physical health. Maka's fists shake, balled so tightly against her ankles as her nails dig into her palms. She stands, letting them hang to her sides as the water continues its violent rain.

Yanking the tiny bottle of shamditioner, she attacks her scalp. Gripping her hair and pawing at the surface. It's not good for it, but damn it if it doesn't feel good.

A dull ache sears with her grabs and the scrape of her nails bite as they work through her head with the soothing lather. It's what she wants.

Pain and clarity. Instead of the shit she's handed, outside of this blissful shower. Maka's tired of the emptiness. She's not stupid, she knows that happiness is not an option. With pain, at least she would be feeling something. Everything, anything but this hollow, freezing emptiness that has taken root at her core.

Grabbing the complimentary razor, she attacks the prickling hairs that began to sprout over the course of the day before. Who exactly is she shaving for, anyway? Herself? She scoffs.

But, it's true.

She does it to retain some sense of normalcy. No one wants to touch her, no one wants to be anywhere near her.

"Shhhiiihaa..." Maka hisses inwardly as the sharp edge nicks at her skin. It burns, but with it the tiny cut brings a sense of relief. The way scarlet trails down her shin is mesmerizing; feathering out with the moisture and unique texture of her skin, inching downwards in a dilatory yet definite line.

Beautiful, even.

She steps fully under the lukewarm water, letting the suds rinse from the tangled flaxen locks as she huffs, watching the sanguine-tinted bubbles run in swirls around the chrome circle. She lets the sight lull her; somehow Maka's heartbeat and breathing slow, her body feels astonishingly light; tingling like the air twittering about in her lungs.

It's nice.

Gripping the handle, she yanks it to the side stopping the spray in an instant. Her forehead resting against the hard rubber wall's surface, she leans, letting the water bead, slowly rolling down her heated flesh as the last trace of crimson disappears.

That is what they are all afraid of. Her life's essence, the substance that courses throughout her entire being.

But, they don't know. They'll never know... They won't let themselves.

O~O~O

"Your vitals seem to be stabilizing quite nicely." This woman hums boredly, looking at her watch as the body-warmed bell of her stethoscope presses lightly against the tender scar on his chest. He hisses at the jolt of pain, but tries to maintain a straight face.

"... And you're healing quickly enough, as well." She turns her gaze to the pink haired teen, cocking her brow in amusement. He only responds with a shaky nod, not yet trusting his voice.

"Maybe, I'll even let you out of the house if your recovery continues this well." Her lips curl in a vicious smirk. The boy's head snaps up at this, his pale blue eyes wide and quaking in disbelief.

"M-Mother, do you-?" Her smirk falls as her orbs narrow at the boy. Not yet, he hasn't earned that luxury. He's still incomplete.

"What have I told you about addressing me in such manner?" She cuts him off, her tone is low, dangerous as she applies more pressure to the sore spot.

"Ahh-mmp!" Crona bites his lip to stifle the yelp, trembling.

"I-I'm sorry, Doctor Gorgon! It's just," he whimpers as the metal leaves the healing wound, sticking and pulling slightly as it disconnected, sending fresh shocks of sharp stings down the dark crimson line, "I've never been allowed to leave before." He mumbles on a pant, relieved that the contact has ended as his focus shifts around the floor.

"I never said that you could leave, I said that you could simply exit the house, depending on your recovery." She snorts, standing stiffly and regarding the boy with cold eyes. Turning, she walks toward the door of the room, pausing before she exits. Medusa turns her head.

"You know how much I love you, right?" Her sweet voice is like venom dripping from the fangs of a snake, but it is lost on the boy with her smile.

"You would do well to try and make me proud. Get well soon~!" She leaves with a wave, the door clicks shut behind her.

Crona grabs his crumpled black robe, fingering the material, his eyes deviate around the stark room in the silence. It shuffles mutely, while he shrugs it on and works the ties down it's length.

His icy orbs fall on the other cot in the room; the one parallel his own.

It's been weeks now. He's been between consciousness and surgeries, the days have blended but that one thing has always stuck out, with the fleeting grasp of his own mind.

Ragnarok. His twin, not identical but still his other half.

He's gone.

Their life has always been a struggle, a fight to survive. With every painful test, every experiment in the name of bettering a society that they were never to be a part of, in the name of science; they had always been together. Ragnarok is his boulder, his strength, the one to verbally knock his senses into place when he felt like giving into infection and wasting away with every slice.

Where is he?

Crona's brows furrow as he takes an afflictive paltry breath, gingerly laying himself along the rough canvas of his bed. The metal poles holding stretched material protests in drawn squeaks as he winces, situating himself more comfortably. He hurts down to his bones; it vibrates, thrumming through each one individually in shocks. It's a different kind of ache though.

Weighted. He feels so heavy, and yet, he's so small.

She said that this was the last one; last procedure. But, really, how many times has he heard those same words before?

He's living, breathing currently. Though, when is the next time his body rejects her alterations? It has happened plenty of times before, leading both himself and Ragnarok right back onto those cold tables, under those lights and that scalpel.

To be splayed open, poked, prodded and taken apart; only to be put back together again... Like messy human puzzles.

Where the hell is Ragnarok?!

Crona's breathing speeds as he grips the sides of his cot, trying desperately not to grab at his choppy, multi-operation-styled hair, in case they are still there, and rip the stitches along his scalp.

Would they still be there? How long does it take for them to dissolve? He doesn't know and he definitely doesn't want to touch to find out. He hates the feel of stitches, hates thinking that they are holding his head together.

He bites his lip, his lungs expel oxygen faster than he can fill them as his heart beats painfully against his heavy, aching ribs. Is he suffocating? Dying? Is this what a heart attack feels like? Will it beat so hard that it just explodes? It can't do that! He needs to stay alive, needs to be here when his brother returns!

Ragnarok... Where...?

His anxiety is crippling, sight is fogged; ethereal-looking against the ever-present fluorescent light, yet darkening. Crona can see the outline of the veins in his eyes, etched through his hazy vision like lightening striking with every pulse. Beyond the thundering of blood in his ears, it's like he can almost hear his brother's voice in his head.

"God damn it, asshole! Fucking breathe! Shit's fine... Breathe." That voice, it sounds urgent. Even though Crona is sure it is just his own imagination, it's comforting. Pacifying.

Familiar.

He closes his eyes, trying to drown out the throbbing of his skeleton and the stinging of his skin, focusing on the voice in his head, one that sounds so much like his brother; cursing his frail neurosis with jeers until Crona's breathing steadies, his body relaxes.

Tired. He's so very exhausted. To be functional, aware, is so much effort. Crona lets go, allowing himself a moment of peace in oblivion.

Behind closed orbs, his brother is gulping down soup like an animal and making crude remarks about movies they were permitted to see while lain-up during recovery.

He's playing with the bathroom's bidet, spouting commentary about rain dances as the pinkette gags, thinking about where that water is meant to go; making Crona mop it up while he laughs steadily. Because Ragnarok would not clean it and Crona doesn't like stepping in water on the floor in the bathroom, he would think it's pee and that's just nasty. Just as gross as butt spray.

Ragnarok is pointing out his new stitches, connecting them all with imaginary lines drawn with his finger. He's making faces, people. Throwing his drug-husky voice to act out a bar joke with the different characters... Whatever a bar is. Crona doesn't know, but it's funny while submerged head-first into a medication stupor.

He dreams of better times, of having his brother by his side to make light of their lives, of companionship; An escape from the loneliness that has pronounced and grown into his every day in the waking world.

The door opens once more as the woman slinks in, twirling the strands of her odd blonde braid around the fingers of one hand as she reaches into the pocket of her lab coat with the other, humming softly. Her lips twitch with barely contained excitement as she silently draws nearer the unconscious boy. Her bare feet padding carefully, skillfully across the polished stone floor as she drops her locks to uncap the needle, prepped and ready in her grasp.

Medusa's eyes light up and she bites her lip to stifle the charged laughter bubbling in her throat as she thrusts the needle skillfully into an artery in the boy's neck.

His shaking sky blues shoot open with a startled cry, his body gives a short-lived thrash. His orbs roll back into their sockets, lids fluttering as the thin inky fluid is pushed into his bloodstream. It drags him into the abyss of paralytic torpor, all the while fire courses, burning through his veins.

The last thing to reach his ears is his mother whispering a warped lullaby into his ear.

"I love you, Crona~." She snickers, recapping the tip while taking long strides to exit the room.

The boy is so close to perfection, she can almost taste it's sweetness.

O~O~O

"I'm sorry, but visiting hours are over. I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Maka takes in the woman's disheveled state from over the top of her novel. Her scrubs are damp in areas, her hair is frizzing out of it's braids, held messily in a loose ponytail and her eyes are both bruised and bagged with exhaustion, hardly hidden by her dark complexion.

Must have been one hell of a shift, but Maka can't help herself.

"For once, I feel like staying." She spouts boredly, returning to the words on the page, "Now... Shoo!" Waving the woman off, she smiles smugly behind the paper mask and her book's cover.

The woman gives an irritated throaty sigh.

"Not an option, kid. This is a hospital, not a hotel. It's by pure luck that your father is even permitted to stay." The nurse's words cut through the girl straight to where it hurts, that upward simper falling to a deep frown and a glare that could turn men to stone.

That's right. The whore-sister of her father's doctor. The root of all this disease. Spirit always was close to this Doctor Stein,... or whatever his name is.

Too fucking close.

That man basically aided her father with his years of infidelity; endless days of suffering for her mother and now a lifetime of emptiness and anger for herself. Stein introduced that bitch to him, pretty much throwing her family into a whirlwind of homewrecking STD's , acquired immune deficiency syndrome, meningitis. He felt guilty, so the bed and room are a perk of pro-bono.

How fucking sweet of him, right? Though, still, the blame is entirely on the man laying in that bed.

Maka rolls her eyes as she grinds her teeth, letting out a nasally exhale, much like a bull ready to charge. "Right."

The nurse folds her arms, tapping her foot on the vinyl none-so-covertly.

"Yeah, yeah. I hear you..." Maka mumbles as she pushes herself from the chair and snatches her bag, carefully, yet forcefully, stuffing her book into it's pocket. She stomps to the exit, throwing her weight into her shoulder as she bumps into the rude nurse.

"'Ey! Sorry about that. I've been sitting a while, you know? Wonky legs." The nurse jumps back, away from further contact, brushing at her scrubs furiously in distress. Maka chuckles at the pissed off glower she gets from her as she stumbles backwards down the hall with hands up in mock surrender, turning on a wink.

"...Cunt." Maka grunts as she rips off the paper mask, crumpling in her hand while she begins to navigate the creepy deserted passages of the 'No Hope' wing.

Her shoes clack, resounding, bouncing off of the plain walls as she turns corner after corner, through this clinical maze. Information desks stand empty, papers neatly piled by flickering computer screens.

Where are the nurses? Where are the doctors?

Those are questions that Maka always asks herself, but never cares enough to have anyone answer. She can draw her own conclusions, that's why she dubbed this place the 'No Hope' wing, after all. No one really cares. They are all just waiting for death, the workers are merely the clean-up crew.

Maka tosses the crumpled mask into the small trash can at the foot of a desk without stopping.

She finally reaches the automatic sliding doors and the warm evening air greets her in a suffocating embrace. Maka groans, leaning against the concrete wall for support, trying to acclimate herself.

The walk is going to suck. She knows this already.

A few breaths and she's steady enough to move on. Dizziness subsides a little as her head clears from the darkened flashes that popped behind her eyes.

But, it never really goes away.

So many thoughts storm through her mind, from memories to the dreaded thoughts of 'what if?' It doesn't help that she hasn't eaten well -if anything- since graduation, hasn't seen her 'friends' since then either.

Does it even really matter anymore?

No, it doesn't. She's as empty inside as she feels emotionally. It's fitting, really.

Her legs move slowly, deliberately over the side walks and across the street. Crosswalks are nothing but a waste of time, a waste of concern.

Overhead the lights lining her route dully illuminate her every step, passing through each coned ray and into darkness, to the light and back again. A strobe-effect that only serves to draw her deeper into her own mind.

There was a time when she walked this path with both parents. She held their hands so tightly as she swung from them, squealing, giggling up at the adoring smiles they gave to her.

They were all happy once, right? That wasn't just a dream?

It's been so long, she couldn't really say. What's it like to smile without forcing it? To laugh, to feel that rush of pleasant warmth spread as the sound escapes in ridiculous trills? Maka doesn't need to see to know what direction she's heading. She doesn't want to be in that house, never does after seeing him.

Absently, she stretches her hand out to the side, her fingertips graze the iron bars as she watches her feet kick up from the porous pavement. The holes pass like a negative of falling stars upon the ground.

The gate whines, breaking her from the hypnotic sight and pausing her feet. She's here again, the park.

It's so different at night, muted. Instead of the blinding shades trying to hide the brittle state of the plants and brush, the shadows sway and calignosity seems to call to her. Maka pushes the gate open, ignoring the screech of oil-neglected hinges, walking through. Familiarly, grass crunches beneath her shoes, rustling with her stride.

They say that the park is dangerous at night. That the hoodlums and drug pushers gather here, rapists, murderers... That doesn't scare her. She welcomes whatever pain they could give her.

Because pain is better than being hollow.

Numb.

Empty.

She eyes the nearing tree blankly, disappointed even. This place, this supposedly dangerous fucking place, is empty. There is no one aside from her, as always. Maka sighs, closing her eyes as she slides down the rough bark.

She's perpetually alone. Should she have expected any different?

O.O.O

Noise. There is so much of it.

Laughing, chirping, the buzz of chatter and the rolling clomps of running shoes beating against cement.

Ugh. Joggers. Who in the hell wants to run in this place? So hot. Draining.

It's too bright to be morning. Maka groans, burying her face in the crook of her elbow as one hand groggily swipes the dirt from her face.

She props herself on her elbow, at terms with the day and feels around for her stuff, clutching the bag to her chest. She doesn't feel like moving, doesn't want to bother with the crowd or to see him again. So, hauls the book and her nearly empty bottle of water from the sack, taking a small but greedy sip of the hot liquid as she flips back to the first page.

She's read these words so many times. Each time, they elicit the same result; Escape. This is her escape, her get-a-way, her sanity.

Maka recaps the bottle as it crinkles and cracks in her grasp, shoving it back into the pocket. It only holds a few more drops at best, she should have filled it yesterday. She wasn't thinking clearly, barely can any more.

Scooting backwards, she situates herself more comfortably into the groove of the tree's roots. Ready for another day of the same. Her routine. Maybe something will change?

That's laughable.

Maka's lips twitch, a halfhearted chuckle escaping as she re-reads about the novel's heroine, her struggle with family that used her just to throw her away. The way she felt useless. Nothing more than trash to be swept to the streets; hauled away to rot.

"...But, then she meets him." Maka scoffs under her breath. That shit doesn't happen in reality. She knows this, and still she's sucked into the story as it unfolds once more.

Again.

Then again. Because Maka will keep on until she is no longer able to. Her life is on repeat, a cycle. Left waiting for something, anything to break it.

Maybe she has gone bat-shit crazy. Wasn't it Einstein that said 'insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results'?

No, she's not crazy. She doesn't expect a damn thing. Hope, though. It's completely different... Right?

She turns the page, narrowing her eyes, trying desperately to make the atmosphere fade away and her imagination to take the reins.

O~O~O

It's so cold. Why is it always so cold?

He tries to lift his hand, to open his eyes, to make a sound. Yet he stays silent and his limbs won't budge. The skin of his eyelids itch, that can only mean one thing.

He's back on that metal slab.

Slowly, amidst the static hissing and the pounding in his ears, he can roughly make out voices. They sound like whispers, yet they aren't. He knows this, he's been like this before... Too many times to count.

He knows both voices, but only one of their faces. His mother and the other is a male. They are laughing. Are they laughing at him? Is he nothing but a joke? No... No... His mother, Doctor Gorgon, she loves him, sings to him, works on him to improve him, to further the evolution of the human race in order to bring perfection into being. Why would she be laughing?

Crona is paralyzed. He can't move, straining to hear more than the bursts of laughter that sounds more the like crackling of plastic wrap is taxing. His throat contracts around the tube in his throat and his mind tries to fight through the fuzz and fog.

"Impressive." Who is this man? "...It seems you really have found a use for them." Them? Is Ragnarok here? Crona's breathing quickens slightly.

"I told you I would." Crona can hear the smile in her voice. Though, there's an undertone that is always there with this man that he never hears when she speaks with him or his brother. It's confusing and a little off-putting.

Crona faintly detects the scrape of metal on what sounds like stone and a prickling pressure on his ribs, jolting him out of his thoughts to listen more intently. It's all he can do.

"...And this has spread throughout his entire structure?" The man's low voice is nearly breathless as footsteps sound all around Crona's limp form. Circling him, observing him. "Fascinating."

"Aww, my dear Franken!" The woman's timbre is even more amused, taunting the faceless man. Crona would have shuddered at her pitch, had he control over his body. "If that is all that you think I've accomplished, you sell me short." Medusa giggles, slow and deeply. "Watch."

Crona feels another small pressure at his side, along with heat suffused with pins and needles. Then there is nothing.

He hadn't realized until now that his body no longer aches. Paralysis or not, he can usually feel everything if he gains consciousness. No, he feels nothing but the chilling sting of the table pressed at his bare back, the needles piercing his flesh, the tube stuffed down his esophagus and the damned tape at his lids.

"So, you've managed to manipulate their genetic response to injury..." He seems confused, his voice trailing as Crona feels this mystery man's eyes boring into him.

"Close~." Doctor Gorgon chimes at the man as she pokes at Crona's ribcage with a gloved finger. "You see, with their long-term subjection to my small doses of both radioactive, shock, hormone and gene therapy, I have been able to chart their different responses."

Clacking of heels upon the floor's surface and a rustling sounds next to the boy, as the man makes a curious grunt.

"...And?"

"You do remember that we created two blonde children, correct?" We? Wait... Could that mean that this man...?

"Their... hair...? You expect me to believe that you were able to hypothesize and create your theory over the change in their hair?" This man is his father?

"You sir," Medusa's drawl lowers, huskily as the sentence rolls from her lips, "are correct. Ragnarok had an odd reaction, it seemed that over time, he became immune to our little tests. The experiments began yielding inconclusive results. But Crona, oh Crona. His skin began creating the acids that I've have been exposing him to, the oils have changed with time, his body's production becoming an adaptable device for the mold. His hair, as you can tell, is not of the classic classification of natural, you could say. It was a perfect indicator that something had gone right."

Doctor Gorgon gives a throaty chuckle that churns Crona's empty stomach.

"What of the other one? Ragnarok, you say you named him...?" Ragnarok! Where is he? Please, let him be okay...

"Oh, him." She hums boredly. "There were changes in the boy, but none that would prove useful to our research. His blood, so fascinating... A liquid with the ability to be both that and solid. One, that once within the veins could harden organs to protect them, making them nearly impenetrable. But, there was a problem." Problem? Crona's eyes burn with tears that threaten to shed, but couldn't. His brother... A problem... No, Ragnarok has to be fine! He has to ... He can't...

"Oh?"

"Well, I've said it before. He never responded to any of our other tests, his body never produced the ability to make that acid or oil... Just the blood. As a result of the blood, while as safe as his organs were when conscious, his flesh was a different story. It was true that he could harden the blood in order to close up lacerations, but in doing that, he was no longer able to truly heal. Normally or otherwise. While in the case of Crona, deep wounds only last an average of two days..." She laughs again, excitedly slapping the boy's side. "Well, you saw! Less than that, now! ...With help..."

The man is chuckling too. It's such an odd detached sound. Scary.

"Enough of this." Medusa purrs deep and airy. "We can converse more over that date you promised."

"I am quite... Famished." Eww. If there wasn't a hose clogging his throat and something in his stomach, Crona would have definitely emptied it. He's seen enough movies and read plenty of literature to know underlying innuendos when he hears them.

"And if you're good, you'll get a special... Dessert." Crona doesn't want to hear this from his own mother.

"I'll tell you all about our other trials, too." That man's voice coos.

"Mmm... I love it when you talk... dirty." Medusa practically moans, making Crona's stomach flip.

"Nnnhmm... Filthy." Their voices are fading into the static, growing more muffled as their steps move farther away. Crona couldn't be more relieved.

That relief quickly vanishes with the realization that he never did hear what happened to his brother.

Ragnarok.

Heavy, so heavy.

He couldn't do anything but lay here if he tried. His appendages, he knows, are strapped down, his hips belted, his neck and head tethered. It's useless.

He can't just lay here. He can't, he can't, he can't! His brother may need him! He may be suffering, alone, somewhere in this house! Crona tries to tense his muscles, focusing on his toes, his fingers... any small motion that could lead to something other than a flaccid useless body.

Ragnarok!

His name sizzles at his insides like an electrical current and once more he hears that voice, clear against the crackling static and fog muffling his brain and ears; so much stronger than before. His imagination is begging to hear that voice in reality, he bets.

"Quit trying to move, you little prick! You'll just hurt yourself. Don't be such a dumbass and calm the fuck down." That voice growls, but it's soft. Concerned. Wow, why would his imagination want him to stop when all he wants to do is find his brother?

"You couldn't do shit anyway. Think about it for a damn second."

Crona's brow is beaded with slick sweat, though he hasn't budged. But, he stops. That voice, imagination-Ragnarok is right, that doesn't mean he likes it.

This room echoes with moaning metal and it's so cold. He's alone, tied to a table helpless, naked, exposed. He can't see, can't move. He's utterly vulnerable.

Destitute.

His heart is hammering, beating with such force against bones that feel like metal rods. It hurts, so much.

Mother, please...

"DAMN IT, CALM THE FUCK DOWN!"

Crona's nasally breaths are coming so quickly, too fast, but there isn't enough oxygen. His face feels funny, it stings, swollen, fat and tight like someone is pulling at it from all angles. His head is spinning in the dark... but he's stationary, right?

"Seriously, cool your shit..." That voice in his head... He misses hearing it with his own ears.

Ragnarok.

Crona's mind quits on him as his breathing slows with a blocked gurgle to deep pants, the noise cuts out, that voice stops as everything merges with the all-encompassing darkness.

~O~O~O~

Maka is miserable.

There is no way that she can think clearly with the sun beating down on her. The shadow is occupied on the far side of the tree trunk and she is so thirsty. Oh, so very thirsty.

Maka's tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, it's difficult to swallow, to breathe. Her lips hurt, ache. They're cracked, chapped, she knows it without having to test them with the tip of her tongue. To do so would only make things worse, she's sure. It's too dry, the appendage is probably like sandpaper.

She keeps eyeing the bench in front of her where a crisp near-full bottle of water is sitting on the wood. Condensation on the outside of the foggy, frosty plastic beading and falling down the smooth surface. Almost in slow motion, it's teasing her.

Taunting her.

Would it be easy just to take it? To slip by and stuff it's cool container in her heated palms... It probably would be.

But there is an issue. Has the owner drank directly from the bottle or did he just pour it in his mouth? Maka used to have a little thing about germs, especially with what's happened to her mother and father. She is pretty desperate, though, and at this point, does it even really matter any more? Everyone treats her like she's diseased already.

Fuck it! This person has two of them, anyway.

She secures the strap of her bag over her head and across her chest, her treasure packed away safely in the folds. Maka creeps forward on her hands and knees with precision, perfect balance. She stands in silence, like a ninja or an upright lioness stalking her pray, her agility is flawless.

Rolling the tips of her shoes into the grass and earth she advances in silence, drawing nearer her target. She crouches behind the back of the bench, her hand outstretched. She can feel the chilled aura of the bottle seducing the tips of her fingers. Her heart is racing, her blood jittering as it floods her veins with every pump.

She snatches it without fault, running as fast as she can in the opposite direction, sweltering wind licking at her cheeks. Soon, Maka has gotten a safe distance, she thinks maybe she could slow down, take a breather and a sip...

Only to collide face first into a frisbee that seemed to have been thrown by the demigod Hercules himself.

A stream of particularly unladylike curses fly from her mouth as she grabs at her forehead, the pilfered water dropping to the ground with the weapon discus. She tries to clear her clenched eyes from the bright white and stars flickering behind her lids with the pressure of her palms.

That fucking hurt!

"Damn it! How am I supposed to school you in this godly game of frisbee golf if bitches keep flocking to me and blocking my throws?!"

Oh no.

Maka's breath catches. She knows that voice and it doesn't bode well that she's in such close proximity. Suddenly, her frisbee injury doesn't seem like such a big deal. It still sucks that it's her face, though.

"Dude..." Someone's moving closer to her... When had she gotten to the ground? "I told you, there isn't a course here. Anyway, I think you really hurt this chick."

Indeed. Maka could feel the swelling and the small cut pulsating beneath her fingers. It's bleeding, much more than she thought it would. That was just a frisbee, right? What the hell? She groans as the lights fade, moving her hands and opening her eyes to test her vision.

The footsteps stop as one of the boys gasp, the other grunts.

"Maka..." Whether her name escaped the white-haired, crimson-eyed male in disbelief, panic, fear or disgust, she's not quite sure. But one thing is certain: he's not coming any closer.

Tears sear at her ducts, but not from pain.

This boy was her best friend, in another life... More than that, actually. In another time where her family wasn't torn to shreds, a time that had passed. A distant memory, left to be forgotten. Much like he had done to her.

"Watch where the fuck you throw this damn thing!" Maka growls, yanking the hard blue thing and tossing it to the sets of feet before her. "People walk here, you know."

They step back before it hits the ground. Neither makes a move to pick it up, they just stare at it like it's going to sprout limbs and wage war on them. It's like a punch to the gut, taking the wind out of her.

So this is how it is? This is how it will always be.

"'Ey! Now hold up! You ran directly into my line of fire!" The other boy snorts, crossing his arms and tossing his bad, frizzled blue dye-job into the scorching wind. "It's not my fault you suck at life."

"Well, to be fair you just kind of launched it without looking, man." Scratching at his cheek, the albino kicks at the ground uncomfortably. "It's not cool to be wreckless, dude. I mean, what if it was an old lady or a kid? Maka is tough, but it's still pretty shitty of you."

"Yeah, well she obviously wasn't paying attention to where she was going either!" Dye-job waves off the blame, pointing a nail-bitten finger in Maka's direction. "For shame! It's not like my arrival is something to ignore!"

Maka's eyes narrow at him, her jaw so tight. She's still stuck stealing glances at the plastic discus on the ground. There are so many things she'd like to say to this asshole. She wants to scream, lash out, blame them both for expanding the frozen crater inside of her. Leaving her empty, cold.

But, she doesn't. It's not actually their fault, right? It's just a misguided attempt at self-preservation, yeah?

She just lets silence settle over them as she studies them, taking them both in with a hardened, scalding glare. The quiescency is stiff and a little awkward.

'Friends' she used to call the arrogant Black Star and laid-back Soul. Maka had known them so well, they had been close in their circle of mutual friends. She grew up with these boys, from playground tears to shy elementary giggles, adolescent crushes and playful banter, amiable competitive rivalry.

These two, she used to be able to share secrets with, crash at their houses for the night if homework-hangouts ran over too late. She's made them lunches and cleaned their respective home cupboards of snack foods.

They've thrown popcorn at annoying sappy couples in movie theaters and had to be escorted out of stores for playing with loud musical toys with 'try me' buttons, unleashing hundreds of bouncy balls from their elastic rope prisons and riding tricycles through the aisles.

They used to laugh until their sides hurt, cry or listen -or both- when one of the others were in pain, be quiet company for each other when they didn't feel like talking.

But now, they are nothing and she is nothing to them.

Strangers.

Soul puts a hand on Black Star's proud -but tense- squared shoulders, looking down at her with those red-eyes gleaming with... something. Concern? Guilt? Shame? Care? He opens his mouth to speak, but honestly that look... it's too much. She cuts him off with her hand.

Shoulders shaking, she bows her head. Maka plucks the cold bottle from the dry grass, just to have something to tuck between both palms as the jolts come faster, harder.

Her snorts and snickers turn into full out laughter. It's not joy, no.

Her rocking guffaws are sarcastic, bitter. Those feelings and memories rattle in the void these boys left her with. It tickles and if possible, that frozen hollowness gets even colder.

It's funny. Oh, so fucking funny!

They stand there staring at her, eyes wide in shock. Just what the hell are they looking at, don't they already know?

She hums to herself as the giggles die down. Maka picks herself up off of the ground, wiping the trail of blood from her forehead and the bridge of her nose, cleaning her hand on the pleat of her skirt. It's fabric is dark, already dirty. It doesn't matter, nothing matters.

Lazily, she ambles toward them. Bending to pick up the frisbee, she tosses it vertically into the air, catching it, just to do it again with a tight-lipped grin. She stops on the last catch, gripping it's edge so hard that her knuckles turn white as she looks up into their eyes. Soul's gaze falls, unable to look at her directly.

"Yeah, anyways...sorry about that." He mumbles to the grass at his shoes, her grin grows as she grinds her teeth. Black Star shakes his odd mane, pointing his flared nostrils skyward.

"Nah... I'm not sorry. Shit happens, but I guess I could forgive you for getting in my way." He chuckles as his face lowers, directed at her, but he's looking at some point behind her. He can't look at her either. Her jaw aches with the force shes placing on it.

"I know I'm awesome, but it's not something that can rub off. It's not contagious." With Black Star's comment Maka's grin falls, but her molars are threatening to crack. Soul throws an elbow into the other male's ribs, laughing awkwardly. Black Star's surprised yelp catches in his throat as he garbles it into something like a cough.

Maka only forces a smirk, quirking a brow as she keeps walking toward them.

"Go screw yourselves." She thrusts the plastic thing into a chest, she's not sure who's, as she keeps on without a second glance. But she hears it fall back to the ground, untouched.

Fuck them.

If friends just abandon and forget you, like everyone else... She doesn't need them. Maka doesn't need anyone. Strangers... That's all they are.

She's already come to terms with this, long ago. Still, it smarts a bit, numbing her more, chilling her further. She barely hears it as she passes through the gates, his voice is so soft, so distant, it can't be much more than a whisper and yet it booms through her head.

"I'm so sorry, Maka."

Her breath hitches as she swallows down a sob and battles the burning of her orbs. Ruby eyes and a sad smile haunt her as she continues on with her routine.

Forsaken, stiff, robotic.

Mechanical. Is she even human anymore?

Maka's feet move absently, passing the wrought iron bars one by one as they showcase the park she's leaving behind in flashes of bright, lively, vibrant hues cut with unforgiving black. Almost like a homemade movie; it's contents once held such beautiful memories, that over time became warped and ultimately forgotten. Sad and destroyed.

There's a screech coming from somewhere in that park, someone yelling something or other about balance and ruin. Maka keeps walking, her mind too occupied with the past and the destruction of her present to give it any real notice.

Ignorance really is not bliss. Especially when it's -unknowingly- used against you. She can't force people to learn; to know that the sins of her father ultimately don't belong to her. That's not something she could broadcast. And if she did...

No one would listen to her, no one would believe her if they did.

No one. She is alone in this.

O~O~O

Crona's nuzzles his cheek deeper into rough fabric as he groggily teeters on the edge of consciousness. His eyes snap open, on a jolt he sits up quickly.

"Too fast." Groaning, he cradles his head in his hands taking measured breaths to combat the dizziness. Crona's lids flutter, lashes fanning his pale cheeks as his vision gradually stabalizes enough to take in himself and his surroundings.

The room is just as cold as the other, but he is clothed; no longer exposed and no longer in pain. It's all gone, as if it were all just an unpleasant dream. How did he get here? When was he moved? Maybe it all _was_ just a dream.

No, it wasn't. It never is, he knows this already; the rest forever remains a mystery.

His crystal orbs scan the sterile room, the other cot is still empty. Breath hitching and heart sinking, Crona's empty stomach turns in knots as he sets his bare feet upon the floor, moving silently over to the vacant bedding.

Running a hand over the canvas, his eyes water. It holds the same chill that permeates the room. No traces of warmth, of disturbance. Ragnarok hasn't been in here at all. Not for a moment. Crona bites his lip to cease it's quiver, sniffling as his head falls and his arms hang limply to his sides.

He's alone.

Faded rose-tinted locks shield his watering eyes as he moves toward the door. He knows to try is in vain, but that doesn't stop him. He's tired of being alone. He could deal with all this when his brother is with him; to keep him calm with his teasing and bullying, his pissy comments and his glares. It's his way and it keeps Crona from over-thinking; keeps him from being lost in his own mind.

Ragnarok gives him focus. Sanity... And now, he's gone. He's been gone, Crona wants to find him. Needs to find him.

He reaches for the knob, thin shaky fingers nudge the icy metal before wrapping them around it, wincing a bit at it's unwelcoming temperature.

He knows it won't turn. It never has, unless Doctor Gorgon was coming in or heading out. She isn't here and he almost hopes that she isn't on the other side of the door. She loves him. Aside from Ragnarok, she is the only one whom he has ever seen. She's a comfort of routine, but...

She scares him.

Her soft words and songs are always before, during, or after pain. When she touches him, it's because she's slicing him open or prodding him with sharp needles; testing him, experimenting on him, exploring his genetic boundaries and forcing her way through them.

When she affirms her love, it's with a sneer and a smirk. Her smiles make his nerves quake.

But she does love him, she has to. He is her son, she tells him she does. If she didn't, would she keep him alive like this, like she has his entire life? The torturous tests are for science and her words are meant to be soft.

She is a constant, his lifeline. He wants to see her all the time, yet, not at all. Her love is painful; absolute agony. It hurts, so much.

Crona takes a deep breath, holding onto it before letting it out in broken spurts as a shiver runs down his spine, his mind goes blank.

The knob turns all the way, a metallic swish indicates that the barrier between he and the rest of the house is movable; able to be conquered by a pull and few steps.

It's absolutely daunting.

He trembles, his knees nearly buckle, they are so weak. Air doesn't seem to fill his lungs with the greedy gulps he's giving in to. But, he hasn't moved. He can't. This... It feels forbidden.

He has to take a moment. Crona's muscles spasm, his digits tighten and loosen. His own weight is crushing against the soles of his naked feet, it makes his body sway with slight vertigo that threatens to take him out.

He thinks of his reason, the person who propels him onward. Straightening up, he wills for clout to carry through.

Ragnarok.

"Fucking do it, already!" That voice is back, egging him on like grumpy cheerleader buzzing in his brain. "It's nipply in here, you're about to create daggers in that man-dress, pussy! Let's get some sun up in this bitch!"

Crona's hands steady as a soft smile spreads across his face, because that's exactly what his brother would say. His own mind startlingly on point. He would laugh a little, but his momentary contentment still doesn't completely erase the sheer terror he feels at leaving this room.

Without permission. Without supervision. Without Ragnarok.

Teeth grit, Crona closes his eyes, respiring wholly as he wills his hand to grab and his arm to pull. Creaking, the door swings open, unleashing a small breeze of more cool air. He cracks open one powder blue orb at a time, holding back a whimper.

The hall before him is long, clean, and absolutely empty. Everything is white. Everything sparkles. Everything smells the same.

Arid, aseptic, fumigated. It stings his nostrils, so he knows the last cleaning was recent. It's like an omen.

Crona takes a cautious step forward, scanning the well-lit passage and it's many doors for any surprises that may jump out at him. Warily, he takes another step forward, gently closing the door behind him.

Slick, yet completely dry, the floors stick to the balls of his feet making a slight peeling sound at every motion, no matter how light. Unnerving, but he presses on.

Reaching for the first door he comes upon to his left, he tries the knob. It jiggles but it won't budge. It's locked.

Crona's brow furrows as his left hand grips his right elbow. For some reason, the temperature is getting to him, biting at his flesh more viciously than any other time in the past. The warmth of his arm, his hand against his own skin is comforting, the pressure of his bony fingers soothing to his nerves.

He goes for the next knob, but hesitates. Goosebumps rise along his forearms up to his neck, his fingers twitch. He sighs and closes the distance. It's locked also.

His face falls, his lips tugging into a deep frown as his vision clouds over with a sheet of unshed tears. Will he ever find his brother? Is he behind one of these doors, a prisoner of both mind and body? Is he...?

Crona gulps, continuing his trek, attempting the handles he comes across with more urgency. His strides are small and awkward, but they are quick and soon there is only one left. The center is glass, only the borders of it a heavy white wood, thick enough for a levered handle.

It opens into more of this large house.

Crona feels so small compared to the expansive corridors before him. He moves onward, timidly, his breath coming in panicked rhythm along with his pounding heart. He grips his arm harder, his nails digging into veins at the crook of his elbow, but with the sting comes his certainty; his resolve.

Nodding once to himself Crona attacks door after door, following the twists and turns of the passage. Backtracking, he tests the others.

None are budging. There are no answers to his whispered calls or knocks. The only thing that keeps him company along this venture is the patter of his feet and the echoes of his own wavering tone.

Some how he makes through two labyrinthine floors and down nearly three flights of slippery-looking, polished stairs without too much incident. Knees wobbling, hands gripping the rails as if they would disappear if he were to remove them, Crona crumbles with an allayed cry shakily breaching the last step. Upon the open ground of sparkling marble, he heaves hollow relieved chuckles between sighs.

How had he never known that he was in an upstairs room? Wouldn't the human body just know that sort of thing? He flattens his damp palms along the frigid floor, praising it for it's solidity with soundless whispers and just enjoying the security of solid, level ground.

Crona's gaze rises once he's certain his balance will hold, his eyes stretching impossibly wide.

This area is so much different than the barren walls of the endless hallways the boy just came from; contradistinct his and Ragnarok's room with nothing but cots, closets, bathroom, touch screen television/electronic book mounted into the wall, all the white... This foyer -he thinks it is called- has furnishings, color.

Oil paintings on canvases the size of the floor in his room are hanging, framed in swirling filligree borders. Landscapes lay suspended on walls perpendicular to eachother as abstract holds alone across the open foyer: an oceanic scene at nightfall, desert at sunset with hues that mere words can not describe, seemingly senseless splatters that makes him feel lost, sad and angry. They fill the walls as sculptures line the floor on glittering ivory pedestals.

Crona has never seen anything like it, it takes his breath away. He has to blink to be sure it's all real.

It's not just antiseptic white. It's real life, not just pixels projected on a screen. All of this is physical, he can reach out and touch each piece if he wants to- but he won't! He'd probably rip something, break something! He couldn't be responsible for the destruction of such beautiful things! That would be terrible!

Crona realizes that his jaw has been hanging so he closes his mouth, gulping furiously, trying to generate enough saliva to lubricate his dry throat. This is almost too much, too quickly. He's still gawking.

Using the railing at the mouth of the steps to support himself, he stands. Stumbling forward, he looks around once more, admiring the art yet again -it's impossible not to- but, that's no longer his focus.

There's one door to his right, though judging from the light beaming through the small semicircle window at the top, it leads to the outside world. While tempting, that's not his goal at the moment.

He has to look for Ragnarok, has to find his brother, has to know whether or not he... Crona shuts his eyes, banishing the thought with a vicious shake of his head... Then he'll investigate outside.

Fingertips running feathery trails along the wall, he follows it into another opened area. There is nothing but seating and tables, a few upholstery items and other sleek furnishings. He pushes off of the wall to stumble past the sitting area, going deeper into the main floor wing. Crona passes through a large opening breaking the other section into this new one.

He has to hold back a loud gasp with his hands, but the deep nasally breath he takes causes him to sneeze. Dust. Something he's never encountered before seems to assault his airways with a vengeance and he is left sputtering less than gracefully beneath this grand entryway, doubled over and leaning against the large threshold.

His eyes water, probably red from irritation, his nose runs. The boy feels disgusting, but the way his lungs seize with his coughing fits, he really can't think of much else.

When his body finally adjusts and his lungs are able to cooperate civilly with the dirty air around him, he wipes the salt from his face and eyes with the back of his hand. Upon seeing it all again, he tries not to make the same mistake, it's hard though.

Large bookcases span the entirety of this room, lit by wall-sized multi-paned windows framing the cloudless blue sky and golden rays streaming across the floors in beautiful translucent pillars. Crona wanders into the center of the room without thought, turning, rotating on his heel to absorb everything about this place.

It's fascinating.

He has never seen a real book before, read plenty, but never the hard physical copy of one. And now, he is surrounded by them. The only thing besides his mother to connect him to the unknown, the endless lines of text... Books exist. They really do. There are more than he knew numbers to count them all.

A bit reluctantly, his legs carry him past it all, toward the next archway. His longing stare following shortly as passes through the curvature to take in an elegant lavish table set with gorgeous dishes and polished silver. Has anyone even eaten in here?

What would it be like, to share a meal with his mother and brother at this table? Crona's brows furrow, his frown deepening eyes glazing over as he follows the curves of the smooth chair backs and exposed table ledge.

Ragnarok would love to do that. He loves food.

Truthfully, Crona isn't the most hungry person in the world, he guesses. A lifetime of broth and bland semi-solids at stretched intervals -in order to coincide with surgery and experiments- has done a toll on his appetite.

To eat means that he has healed. Having healed means that more tests are near.

He blinks away the far-away stare, his hand dropping as he reaches the end of the table. Giving the set up a last glance, he walks on.

There are no doors to try in here, maybe there'll be some in the next? He passes through the opening.

Pots, pans, cooking utensils and appliances meet his curious orbs, all the same color. So much of the same color. Grey, steel grey.

On the countertops, every accessory... Everything. Aside from the the ebony stone flooring. There are two doors here, he walks cautiously to the closest one. It's wood, he thinks. The other is cast in that same metal and the knob is strange. Like a locking latch. It's a bit intimidating.

This one opens with a small creak. Chrome racks holding bags and jars, bottles and sacks are situated neatly around this small den. It holds a smell different than dust and cleaning supplies.

Rich... Spicy.

Crona's stomach protests in a loud growl, he presses his palm to it as if that would quiet it down. It smells so good in here, like nothing his senses have ever experienced before. And for once, he's actually hungry. He wants to eat. If he wasn't petrified of the consequences he would rummage through every container and give it all a curious sample.

The pinkette lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. There's nothing in this room of crucial significance, other than the delicious strange new aroma. Backing out, he bites and sucks on his lower lip attempting to contend with the slaver that continues to flood his mouth.

It's difficult to leave this place when it's smell promises satisfaction. How long has it been since he's eaten? He doesn't even know. Meals themself are never really memorable. Crona sighs sadly, reluctantly closing the door to investigate the other.

Has Ragnarok had the opportunity to smell these things, to explore this house? Was he able to do so before Crona? Did Ragnarok do all these things without Crona? Only remembering bits of his mother and... father's conversation irritates him. He was awake damn it! All that stuck out was his brother's name and that that man was their father, everything else is too fuzzy to understand.

Crona doesn't like the constricting feeling he gets in his chest or the burn that lingers in his throat, but that thought is much better than any of the others he's had.

He tugs the strange latch, the door is heavy and cracks at its seal. Patently the metal entry pulls back at Crona, giving a small struggle before releasing. It's so loud in this room, frosted fans roar to life blowing winds so much colder than that of the rest of the house.

Rolling clouds of freezing fog escape and disappear into the air yet linger in the chamber , Crona lets the place clear so he can see. There is nothing in here except what looks to be frozen foods, netted and bagged, boxed and labled.

A freezer? His mother wouldn't keep Ragnarok in a freezer... Right? He shivers.

Straining his eyes to read the many labels, the boy sighs in relief, a hand to his heart. Letting go of the heavy metal door, it seals back as he walks away. There is still more to see, more to search.

Ragnarok must be here, somewhere... He has to be. He wouldn't just leave Crona. Or, so he hopes. Passing by the copious amounts of steel, he presses onward.

To his right lay a narrow flight of covered stairs going down and to the side of that another open archway that seems to circle back into the artwork foyer; to his left stands an ornate set of stained glass double doors. The sunlight streaming through the colored window leaves splashes of reds and blues, greens and violet along the marble in swirling rays. It's pretty.

It calls to him and the other path... scares him. Such darkness, he's never had to deal with it before. Everything has always been bright unless his eyes were closed.

This is different. Shadows will surround him, he will see them take him in greedily. They will eat him, consume him, surround him. A shudder runs up and down his spine. His steps are stiff, his jaw hurts from the immense pressure he's using to clench it, his teeth feel like, at any moment, they will crack and crumble from it all.

Beneath his grimace, he whimpers.

One by one he takes the steps down, deeper into the unforgiving shadows, plunging himself further into darkness. Sinking, with the steep tread downward into this dry black sea.

One hand is planted firmly along the wall without rails, feeling the surface scratch at his palm as he fights to grip it, descending deeper, further into unlit passage. His other twitches, shaking in front of his body feeling for any obstacle that may arise, meeting empty air.

His fingertips finally graze grainy wood and he almost screams at the contact. Crona's heart beats bruises on the inside of his ribcage as he tries to regulate his breath, clutching the fabric at his chest; deep inhale, drawn exhale.

In, out, in, out.

Feeling around the wood, he searches for a knob, lever, latch, ring... something to open this barrier. Why is it so damn dark?! His finger sinks into a hole surrounded by metal. He freezes.

Just a keyhole? So, does the door open inward or outward? Which is which, at this point?

Crona presses his body along its length, his shoulder and elbow pushing forth most of his weight.

Nothing.

He slams into it with no results, but tries again. Over and over, until his back and blades are bested with knifelike spasms and his muscles feel like jelly.

It doesn't budge, the hinges don't even whine at the blows.

Crona's breathing is labored, harsh, but he has to endure. He can't just give up, can't just give in. "R-Ragnarok?" It's an airy croak, barely audible to even himself. He swallows to wet his throat as he sucks down air with his nose to bring the strength back to his voice.

"Ragnarok? Are.." He pants, "-are you down here?"

Crona presses his ear to the surface, listening intently for any noise, any movement, voices, ...anything besides the rapid beating of his own heart and his ragged respiration.

He waits.

And waits.

The boy closes his eyes, his lips tugging into a quivering frown as hot falls cascade down his cheeks. He slides to the stoney ground, hugging his knees to his chest as he buries his face into the knobby joints.

His sobs feel like jagged ice stabbing him in the chest, his throat growing more raw with every painful yowl.

He can't find his brother.

He can't find Ragnarok.

Either he left him, or...

Crona bites at his lips hard, clamping them shut to cut the sound as his body is wracked with violent jerks sputtering from the pinkette. Is he really alone now? How will he think straight? How will he find reason to smile? How will he stay sane? How can he deal with their mother's tests... her love... without his brother by his side?

His stomach churns as he sniffles, the snot and tears marring his face with salted heat and slime. Crona rises to stumble back on the narrow steps, turning quickly, trying to get back into the light and out of obscurity, to escape the overwhelming darkness.

Empty-handed.

He trips, scraping his shins on the steps' divergence as he slides back down. It stings, but the pain fades almost instantly.

Crona gives up trying to keep upright, he crawls, pawing his way up on his hands, knees and toes. He has more control this way. It seems natural to crawl; ultimately moving through in a constant grovelling state. A pathetic creature, an empty soul.

What is he without his other half? What is he if his brother, a piece to this bisected puzzle, is missing?

Incomplete.

He makes it to the top of the staircase and collapses; his damp, heated cheeks against the cold hard floor, his limbs sprawled out from his sides as the colors dance a static waltz on the floor before him.

So dizzy, his eyes are dull, staring but not really seeing.

"Get the fuck up, shit's embarrassing!" Crona's lip twitches up, a sharp intake of air lifts his limp body momentarily. That voice is back, it's so comforting, even if it isn't real.

Is he losing it? Not surprising.

"Seriously, get the hell up! People walk here, and you've got your fucking baby-face all up in that shit... So, it's like you're rubbing your face in a sea of feet!"

Crona's orbs widen, he quickly pushes himself from the floor, scuttling sideways and wiping his cheeks as if that would change anything. No matter how soothing, how familiar that voice, fake or not, it's got a point. Feet are disgusting. And he just...

Crona shivers, gagging a little as he stands on wobbly legs.

"You probably liked it. You probably have a foot fetish. You'd like to suck on toes and rub them piggies all over that ghost white skin, you fucking perv!" That voice roars, laughing. Crona mulls over those words, they echo through his head. His face is frozen in disgust, horrified.

Then he blinks. Crona feels faint, but his expression falls, mellows and instead a small smile spreads. It's odd; those words turn Crona's stomach and makes him chuckle a bit, too.

Because, that is exactly something his brother would say.

He shakes his head, allowing himself to draw closer to the other door. The air grows warmer the nearer he gets.

He pauses.

Both hands rest on the handles, his pulse is quickening, his innards doing somersaults. This is it, his first taste of direct sunlight, of the atmosphere beyond these walls. Is he ready for such a thing? Is he worthy? Can he handle the enormity that lies on the other side of these doors?

Crona twists and pulls, both doors swinging inwards as he's blasted with a heat that feels like it's melting his entire being; thawing him of the thin layer of ice that has settled over his flesh from years of near-arctic chill.

He goes through the doors, raising his face to the sky taking in as much of the golden light as he can with squinted eyes, the heat radiates. It feels amazing; better than he could have ever imagined sunlight to feel. His skin is absorbing every bit, it's practically buzzing. The warmth tickles at his nerves and tenderly caresses each in turn.

So calming. So comforting. Both draining and energizing, Crona feels like he could go to sleep forever or run until his legs give out on him. Then, he sneezes.

He sneezes again.

And again.

Crona's face is fixed twisted in a mix of a snarl and a yawn; one eye open, one half shut as his irises hover on the verge of rolling back. His mouth is hanging open with lips pulled back baring his teeth as he waits for the next onslaught, ready. The ones before caught him completely off guard, surprising him with each violent yet benign nasal-lung seizure.

But not the next one, he's prepared. He's stanced.

He feels it. It's coming.

It is coming.

He leans his head back, to give him leverage for the unknown.

And... nothing. The sensation fades, leaving him strangely forlorn.

With wary -and annoyed- movements, he lowers his head and corrects his features, to easier take in his surroundings; to finally absorb something he's only read about or seen in movies.

He sneezes.

"Really?!" He growls, but it's more of a childish whine.

Scowling, he braces himself for any more sneak-attacks to his nasal cavities with arms spread wide and knees bolstered for impact. His eyes shift, darting about the large yard of tan and white gravel as if to spot the invisible culprit.

Crona's expression softens as his breath hitches.

In the center of brick-lain circles, small bushes and trees stand proudly, speckling the lawn with emerald and lavender. Fencing raises high at the edges of the property, though spaces in between wood slats allow for his wide crystal gaze to peek through. Buildings and streets lay in front of him, on the other side, spanning the grayscale from light hues to dark.

They are so big, bigger than the large house that he has just come from, though... so dull.

A high pitched yell catches his attention, Crona whips his head around, following the sound to another side of the yard. He approaches quickly, with no mind other than curiousity and the need to investigate. Approaching the grainy fence, he presses as far as he can into the space between slats.

The boy gasps.

There is so much green, he isn't sure if compared to all of the grey, it is even real.

There are vibrant colors too. Yellows, blues, reds, neon green all scattered beyond a row of black bars. But what really catches his eye is the person, a girl, steady walking away from the lively colors. Her hair swishes behind her as her vacant sage orbs stare into the pavement with no interest.

She is the first person he has seen aside from his mother and brother. His heart beats frantically as he watches the way her body moves and hips sway so fluidly, gracefully.

His stomach feels odd, a strange mix of heavy and featherlight. Crona swallows the lump in his throat as she disappears around a corner. He retreats from the fence, feeling the gravel between his toes, prodding the sensitive fleshy bottoms of his feet as he backs away. That one girl's detachment breaking him from his awe of the park in place of wanting to relish in the simplicity around him.

The rocks are so sharp, but the heat from the tiny stones and the sun overhead are nice; it vibrates through his limbs, from ends to core with warmth and even though he's been outside for a little while, it's still spreading, melting him down to his center, ridding the icy chill that has been there his entire life.

It's so nice... Even with an eerie sensation at the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end. Crona just brushes it off, not permitting it to ruin this; his first taste of freedom.

Raising his face and palms to the sky, he lets the light caress them as his eyelids flutter down, soaking it in. Allowing the sun to truly kiss his being is invigorating.

No, it's so much more.

"Enjoying yourself, Crona?"

Crona's eyes shoot open, his arms and posture completely fall, blood running cold. So cold, that he shakes. How can it be this cold in such heat?

"Y-Yes, Doctor Gorgon." Nodding, he averts his gaze to the gravel underfoot. It's all he can do to fend off the startled squeak and embarrassing whimper caught in his throat.

"I'm glad to see that you've found your way without losing your bearings." Crunching sounds as the rocks of the lawn are disturbed. Medusa approaches his downcast form smoothly as her eyes narrow and her grin spreads.

"Did you have any issues?" Forced sweet, but her tone doesn't waver. She can practically taste the anxiety emanating from the boy. It's sweet, even sweeter still is that she caused it and she likes that. Fear means power, power equals loyalty.

"No... Not exactly." Crona switches his weight from one foot to the other, trapping his quivering lip between his teeth as he wills for the courage to ask the question weighing on his mind. He can feel her intense stare as it burrows in, terrifying the boy. But, not knowing scares him even more. Inhaling deeply, he raises his crystal orbs to meet golden.

"Is Ragnarok okay?" He breathes the question out, trying desperately to keep eye-contact with his mother.

Her grin grows.

"He seems to be sustaining pleasantly." She hums, looking Crona up and down.

"Which reminds me, it's time to take your vitals and... for you to eat." His stomach lurches as her icy fingers wrap around his arm making his skin crawl, guiding him easily to the open double doors. He doesn't want to go back in there but he doesn't have a choice. His life is what his mother makes of it. Crona's legs carry him obediently behind her.

At least he knows that Ragnarok is alright. His mother wouldn't lie to him.

She loves him... Loves them both.

O~O~O

Rows and rows of houses pass as she walks on, not seeing, not hearing, just thinking.

It wasn't too long ago that those crimson eyes softened around the girl. Back then, that laid-back boy went out of his way to make her laugh, wiped her tears tenderly and kissed her scalp while holding her to his chest.

His heart beat used to speed around her, his cheeks would tint when she would hug him. He stuttered when he tried to ask her out on a date.

Had the blonde have been more observant back then, she would have seen it all for what it was. But, she didn't. She thought that they were just hanging out, like all the other times. Soul even told her that he loved her. Multiple times, in fact. She's said it, too.

... To him, to their friends.

Because she thought she did. Because back then, it wasn't fake to her. At that point in time, it didn't mean what it does now. In the past it meant enduring care, a fondness, a need to be around said person or people. It meant wanting to do anything for a person to secure their well-being, to keep them safe and to protect what you have with them, through both hardships and glory.

But that's not what it really means... No. Hollow. Cold. Empty. Numb... It means abandonment. To be left with nothing, to be forgotten. To rot. It means disease, contagions, death, shame. Love is nothing good.

Subconsciously, she pats the novel in her bag. Whether to remind her of the time she didn't know any better or to comfort the weeping of the lies written in inky text across hundreds of pages beneath her palm. She doesn't know any more.

Maka snorts as she reaches the house. The girl has to duck beneath caution tape and tear the foreclosure notice from the doorframe just to go inside. Again. This time, she doesn't care enough to get rid of it all.

Why does she keep coming back? The only thing that greets her is the protest of the hinges, echoes exaggerating the house's vacancy and the filth. But, in the blonde walks anyway; past the entry, down the hall and into that room with the miniature mattress and dust.

Maka flops down on the lumpy thing, bouncing a bit from her weight, uncapping the stolen water and taking a tiny sip. She needs to learn how to ration better. Swishing the cool fluid through her teeth and over her tongue, she finally swallows.

"Ah!" That little bit was soothing to her tortured throat, she hasn't had cool water in quite some time. Maybe she should steal things more often. The girl needed that and treasure of her efforts are far too satisfying to keep going without.

... It's just a thought to ponder, she doesn't really think she could carry through. It sounded nice though. Recapping the bottle, she lays back, tucking her arms behind her head.

Oh. Sweet. Lord.

Maka's nose wrinkles and she coughs, wheezes and gags. Hurriedly, she moves her arms back down to her sides tightly, waiting for the smell to pass with a paled grimace.

"Mmmhmm!" She grunts. She's made an affirmative decision. Necessities are called such for a reason. Maka wouldn't go without any more. She's had it.

**Author's note #2:**  
_In both the raw native cuts of both the anime and manga, a japanese term is used to describe Crona that is not available in many other languages. It is gender-neutral, ambiguous; Crona has been an androgynous character from the start and ALL THE WAY UNTIL THE END. When it is translated, a gender is assigned to make translation easier. That and it's kind of rude to refer to somone as an 'it.' _

_Some will like to argue about Crona's hips (picture in the manga)... Honestly, that argument is invalid. Have you ever seen a real-life drag-queen? -Side note: not all cross-dressers/drag-queens are gay, btw.- It doesn't even need to be a cross-dresser! Have you looked at a skinny man naked? I know I have. Heh, my husband is one. Ass for days and curves to make a supermodel drop to her knees and ask the powers that be "Why?!" And, I used to frequent gay-clubs, danced with many lady-like men that looked more lady than even myself (ahem, gorgeous example: Google search Andrej Pejic,) helped with make-up and hair for their stage shows... god forbid I touch their outfits, though. So honestly, don't bother. I am a fan of both Crona as male or female (or both/unspecified/neither. I just love the character in general :3)... I just prefer to write the character as a male. ONWARD!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people. ...And Butterfinger's, I don't own those. Nestle does. Sunlight Moonlight belongs to Amanda Ashley.

**Chapter 2:**

Freezing.

The room is absolutely frigid. Crona shivers, balled into the fetal position on his side, legs tucked into his robe pulling the ties tight. Even the cot's stretched fabric feels like a sheet of tiny prickling ice daggers digging into his skin through his clothes.

He coughs, bringing a limp shaky fist to his lips to cover it.

With every wheeze, every sputter, every heave Crona's lungs feel like they are either going to come out and run away or collapse in on themselves; crumple, fall apart... All he knows is that his chest is constrained and it's pure agony.

His throat itches, it hurts, it rattles. Throats aren't supposed to rattle! Every vibration, anything that passes it is like it's being scraped, cut to ribbons.

And Oh God, he can't breathe!

His nose is both running and clogged, he doesn't really understand this, but it's happening, so it is possible. There's so much pressure, too much pressure; it feels like it's squeezing his face and punching his brain, repeatedly, leaving the rest of his body so exhausted, so heavy.

He hasn't even tried to open his eyes yet, but is pretty sure they won't. They feel just as crusty as the snot that has dried on his upper lip and so swollen. Crona can feel the bags beneath them pulsate with his heartbeat and his barking coughs, orbs probably would have popped out of their sockets had his lids been open and normal. So, is the crust and swelling a good thing? He doesn't know, but it sure doesn't seem like it. Though, he likes his eyes in his face rather than outside of it, that's for sure.

What is this? He's never had to deal with something like this.

Dare he say that it's almost worse than recovery, of alteration rejection? Because, it is. At least then he has bouts between the misery, being pretty much drugged up and can sleep through in peaceful reprieve. Right now, he can't sleep and doesn't know if it will ever let up.

This all started with a tickle on the far back of his tongue, late last night. It woke him from a pleasant slumber with it's irritating endurance. No matter how much he swallowed, how frequently he cleared his throat; it didn't matter that he gargled water or scratched at it gently with his toothbrush. It wouldn't go away. So, he decided to ignore it. It just kept spreading, from his mouth to his entire face on to the full expanse of his body; lethargy, dull twinges, itches, aches, puffiness and chills. This, whatever it is, has consumed him completely.

Like the plague... Is this the plague?!

Crona gasps, but its gritty and causes him to impetuously bark until he gags on his own mucus. It's far too exhausting to panic.

He's so tired.

He can't breathe from his nose and doing so from his mouth results in a crippling coughing fit... Which is with every inhale. Almost every exhale, too.

Sleep and respiration are pretty much impossible.

So, he just lays there, on his itchy cot canvas, trying to warm himself with the body heat trapped between his robe and his thin achy limbs. Crona stays inanimate, groaning, because this is surely his death bed.

Oxygen leaves his windpipe in whistles. His abdomen and chest spasm sharply with every whoop. 'Oh God, why?!' He tries to vocalize, but all that comes from him is a high-pitched wet whimper and more forceful fits.

Small inhales, that's the key.

He curls himself tighter, quaking, desperately using every inch of his clothing to cover, warm himself, but his toes feel like ice and the material just doesn't have any more give. The boy keeps at it though, with trembling fingers that the fabric keeps sliding through. Like some sort of sick joke. He's not laughing though. Laughter just might lead to his end.

Steeling himself, Crona puts all he has into yanking the hem of his robe down, so that he can cover his small glacier-like appendages. Knees shifting from within his clothes, his hand slips and his cot tips over, spilling the boy to the unforgiving ground.

He doesn't move. That took every ounce of energy the pinkette had.

He doesn't even really know what happened, hasn't cracked an eye. So, he stays, arm outstretched longingly to the toppled bedding, fingers twitching as his body grows colder.

The stone is so much worse. There is no escape from the chill, it radiates from the surface seeping into all contact points, freezing him to his very core.

He's ice now, it's a sure thing.

Crona will lay here until the end of time, solid, the epitome of a frigid human winter. He coughs, hacking so hard that scalding tears melt through the crust at his lashes, freeing a single baby blue from it's squinted, bagged prison.

Nope, he's not frozen solid. He's just balled up on the floor, semi-staring pathetically toward the sad, capsized cot that had inherently been so much better than where he is now. Hindsight is always 20/20.

It's blurry, but he tries to focus on it, his fingers twitching in yearning; willing for it to set back up and for him to go back. But, that's impossible. He can never go back.

He's gone too far, in the wrong direction. The boy wheezes, fending off a nasty fit by regulating his airflow in pants and throat clearing. This is all his fault and now he must suffer this unholy cold, with nothing but residual foot residue upon marble to comfort him and the result of his folly to taunt his vision. His stomach clenches churning violently and tears burn trails in his cheeks.

He closes his one eye, letting his hand collapse and fingers flatten. The pinkette accepts his fate with shuddering, rattling breaths. Take him, death. He is ready for this to end.

"Just as I expected," He didn't hear the door open, and even though Medusa's words startled him, he continues to lay immobile. "We will have to build up your immunities manually. Such a shame." She sighs, the frown palpable from her words as she comes closer, something squeaking alongside her steps.

Is she really that disappointed? Is it possibly because Ragnarok didn't have this problem? Crona hopes so, he wouldn't wish this on anyone, especially not his brother.

The boy hears Doctor Gorgon pause. A creaking of metal with a small breeze makes him shake a bit more, a clank and click; he cracks open his lid, sure enough, his mother is standing over the now upright bedding. She reset his cot and is now looking at the pink-haired teen expectantly. Doesn't she know he's dying, that he can't move? She's silently asking the impossible of him.

No, she's not asking. She's waiting.

"D-" Crona's voice croaks out the consonant before his lungs attack him, he tries again, "D-Doctor G-Gorgon, what is t-this?" He manages, stumbling over some words in an attempt to cut his coughing. He sounds nothing like himself, more like a warped slow-motion playback with static and breathing issues. It's odd and makes him cringe inwardly. Medusa only sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"It's just a small cold, nothing to be too concerned with." She arches a brow at him, through the blur he can just barely make it out. "You need to eat, get in bed."

He would laugh, if his chest wasn't so full and uncomfortable feeling, if his mother didn't make his nerves stand at attention, sending chills down his spine and lowering the temperature at least ten degrees.

Fear.

This is what drives him to pry his stinging, puffed lids as wide as they will go, what makes his trembling limbs move across the icy stone, even though they are cumbersome and lethargic; the anxiety her proximity stirs within him is what makes him follow her orders without thought. Her love is what ties the boy to her, what both nurtures and hurts him; but she is his only purpose. His and his brother's. They are to be her success.

By some miracle, his shaky hands finally grasp the metal edging and he forces himself onto the canvas. The pinkette commands his body to steady even though his head is swimming and every breath rattles the sticky mucus in his throat, making his lungs seize in protest and his abs tighten to stop the coming whoops when all he wants to do is let it out.

He won't though, he will do as she says.

Food is the last thing on his mind, just thinking that he has to choke down anything makes his stomach twist sharply. He can feel the bile rising as the acids burns up his tender esophagus, sitting in his throat, scalding it with it's bitter serum. Medusa wheels a metal cart over, all the same.

"Now, Crona. You will need to finish all of this, especially the juice." Her golden eyes narrow at him, taking in his weary state and daring him to say different. When he doesn't, her lips tug into a self-satisfied smirk. "And, when you are done, go back outside. There will be seating for you and plenty of fluids to keep you hydrated." The blonde woman sees him sag a little, but his weak hand reaches for the glass of orange juice and he nods slightly.

"Very good." Doctor Gorgon turns on her heel, smooth strides take her silently across the room only to stop at the door

"You should know that the only way to strengthen your immunity is by direct contact." She calls sweetly over her shoulder before disappearing into the sterile hall. "I love you, Crona. I only want what's best for you."

The sick teen cups the cool glass in both hands and takes a sip of the juice. It's thick, he can tell it's tangy by the way it bites at his tongue, but he can't taste it. Carefully he sets the drink down and stares at the steaming bowl of beige puree before him, heaving a choppy sigh.

This meal will be even more bland than usual and it isn't because of the food.

He grabs the glass again and takes as large a swig he can muster, remembering that his mother was adamant he consume it.

"Fucking eat and quit throwing yourself a pity-party that no one will attend because you are a fucking loser that didn't invite anyone because you threw it yourself and didn't think about it. YOU'VE GOT FOOD! GOBBLE THAT SHIT UP!"

That voice is back, and somehow it sounds just as oddly warped and garbled as his own. Maybe it's his illness-clogged mind, or maybe it's just his exhaustion, but it startles him none-the-less. Crona chokes on his juice as it comes back up from his botched swallow and stings his nasal cavities, somehow ending up dribbling down from his nostrils.

"GAH!" He still can't breathe, his sinuses burn, he is choking on mucus and citric acid and his eyes are watering so bad, throbbing, being pushed outward by the pressure in his sockets and being squeezed back in by his lids' puffiness.

It's only morning... And, he has three flights of stairs to descend. If this 'small cold' isn't his death sentence, something else this day has in store most certainly will be.

"What a bitch." Crona doesn't acknowledge that stuffy Ragnarok-like vociferation because he knows... Oh, he knows. He's living this 'little cold' thing, and it is indeed pure torture.

~O~O~O~

Maka knows that it is still summer, but what day is it? What time?

She doesn't know and normally wouldn't care, but she's on an exigent mission. Both of those things are of importance. Even though regular classes have been released for vacation, GED courses are now full swing in shifts and extra-curricular activities run six out of seven days.

Is it the weekend? Saturday would be the perfect day; most of the adult students are not there, only sports practices still in session for competitions or camps to hone skills for upcoming tryouts, so the building stays completely unlocked. Sunday, not so much. If it's a weekday, she will have to time her entrance to remain unseen by faculty, general education development pupils and security officers that roam the many halls to help prevent odd discrepancies here and there; people are violent, no matter what their age.

She doesn't know. She has no fucking clue. Maka advances despite it all, shuffling behind cement culverts and flower-bed-isolated shrubbery just trying to get closer to the parking lot. As if she could judge what day of the week it is by the number of cars. But, damn it, anything is worth a try!

Process of elimination, shouldn't be too hard, even being summer, right? As for the time... She's not about to stare into the sun and try to figure out it's direction... not going to happen.

Maka kneels down by the gated wall of her target, hidden by a stairwell of the school's empty auditorium. Cars are sparse, but there. So... it's either a Saturday, a teacher duty day or... a bunch of students decided to skip. The blonde sighs, rubbing at her temples.

With the rubs, her headache fades making way for the reality of the situation. The girl bites at her lip, an eager smile forming tightly beneath her teeth. Her body is so jittery, breath coming in quick pants. She drums on her knees with her palms just to put that excitable, quivering energy to use as she formulates her plan of action.

She's so ready for this shit!

Maka's desire for cleaner clothes is ardent, she's ready for whatever she can salvage. Securing the bag strap over her head and across her chest, she nods rapidly, psyching herself up and putting her game-face on.

Her heart is beating so fast, respiration is labored, but she feels like she could fly. It's as if her blood is singing in her veins and her muscles are swaggering to the tune, lying in wait for the chance to bust in and rock the fuck out.

Emerald eyes the metal waffle gate ahead with determined fire and the girl pounces, running full speed as her messy flaxen buns bob on either side of her head.

Making a flying leap, she stretches out her arms, hands ready to grasp the highest point she can wrap her fingers around.

Making contact, the grey metal clinks as it shakes around her.

And, she slips, her face rubbing along the twisted metal ungracefully, fingers unable to grab a decent enough hold to support her weight, luckily she only slides down about two feet.

Still, she's a little disappointed. That was pathetic! Parkour assholes make it look like a piece of cake.

Lies, all fucking lies!

Huffing, her brow sets as she starts to scale this barrier the old-fashioned way, grunting a bit as her arms and legs work in tandem. Palms red and pinched in stinging grooves, she reaches the top, swinging one leg over shakily... This is something she didn't think about.

The fence didn't look this high up when she was evaluating it from the ground. Maka's stomach churns restlessly as thick wire triangle spears dig into her ass. Somehow she has to turn so that she can come back down.

Easier said than done.

The blonde tries to pivot her body while raising her other leg enough to pull it the rest of the way over. Bars are swaying and to be perfectly honest, her whole body is just a mess of trembling and senseless trepidation. Maka slips a little, immediately pulling her limbs and torso close to the uppermost bar; clinging to it like a sloth to a branch. A terrified sloth staring helplessly at inevitable demise in slow motion.

Gritting her everything she gives it another go, keeping close to the metal, inching her leg slowly over the side until she is -somewhat- upright and both feet are each secure in their own diamond groove.

Every step down is like a trial of faith, precarious and tottering until she reaches the pavement below. Expelling the air she didn't even know she was holding, she doubles over with her stinging palms to her knees looking up at the fence with a glare.

Of course it doesn't look as bad from on the ground.

Regaining herself and nerve, the girl darts over to the first vehicle in her line of sight. Her goal is four rows away; so close she can almost not smell herself anymore... Almost. Peering around and stealthily crouch-running from fender to fender, she breaches the large doors. Her moment of truth.

This truth; it burns within her chest, swelling her heart and makes all Maka's senses run at a costive pace. For a moment, it is like everything just stops, the anticipation welling so deep at her core, filling her body with electric pulses that just explode vivaciously marking her with sensitive gooseflesh.

It's a rush.

True to the word; suddenly, everything seems to be going fast. Almost too fast, if it didn't feel so damn good.

She's finally at the doors, pulling at the rectangular handle with an airy giggle on her breath. The doors are just as heavy as she remembers, but that's okay, the blonde only needs one opened a crack; she slips in without issue.

Empty and silent, the passage is deserted with all doors ahead closed, so courses must be in progress. Perfect.

Her steps make no sound upon the odd bead-weaved, flat carpeting as the teen moves swiftly past sealed classrooms further down the hall and into the large convergence area connecting multiple corridors to the other wings of the school.

She hangs a left, following the walkway's open path to the physical education branch filled with spirit banners and tinsel decked in black and red. The girl shakes her head at the ridiculous recruitment posters depicting a happy skull and large foam finger pointed at her telling her that the band/cheer squad/guard/football/tennis/lacrosse/swimming/-blah, blah, blah, fucking etcetera- wants her.

It's funny really, because no one wants her, especially the school she just graduated from.

The principle wouldn't even shake her hand when she accepted her diploma, the dick.

She reaches the health-specialty annex, more shut doors to classrooms designed for students that want to pursue a career in sports or other physical-centralized wellness occupations. Nearing, it makes her roll her eyes. Even with such information bountiful, everyone still remains so misinformed.

"Fuck them." She growls in disgust, finally closing in on the one door she wanted to see.

Without squeaks and echoes of yelling and running, the gymnasium entrance is almost unrecognizable. Maka doesn't give it a second thought as she twists and pulls the strangely light door from it's seal, padding in on the waxed floors with her worn shoes.

All the bleachers are stacked away on the center of either wall both in front of and behind her, a mess of chipped painted wood and beams. Her steps sound so lonely in this big place, all those empty seats put away and the court completely vacated, she muses absently as she wanders into the off-lain narrow corridor to the female lavatory and locker rooms.

She doesn't have time to reminisce, dwelling on memories of laughter and camaraderie this place holds. The past is long gone and should just be forgotten.

Beneath her thin soles, matte black tile clicks. The teen passes the rows of toilets and sinks going deeper into these interconnected rooms until she's accosted with the faint scent of shower-damp mildew mixed with traces of body spray, shampoos and deodorants. She grins, eyeing all the unlocked and unattended lockers.

Perfect.

Who needs to lock up their things when your teams are the only ones to come in here during vacation? Who needs to when everyone will be coming and leaving at the same times?

The blonde giggles, opening the first filled, shiny, ventilated door that she sets her sights on.

Her eyes light up, hands jerking as she bites at her lips to stifle the sound of her bubbling fervor before unloading the locker of it's treasures.

With every item Maka pulls, a heady haze spreads through her brain; she doesn't think, she acts on impulse. This mental fog, it makes her heart pound and every nerve-ending tingle. She feels so alive and it's a damn fantastic change for once.

What she wants, she takes and feels no remorse. Not at the moment, anyhow. The drugging cloud of adrenaline is too dense to think clearly... and right now, she doesn't want to think. The girl just wants to acquire these clothes, she wants to feel clean...

She just wants to take back everything that's been taken from her, to fill that gaping hole; it's a goal she knows is impossible, but fresh digs are a good start, though.

~O~O~O~

Wheezing, rasping out whistling coughs Crona resignatedly looks up at the perilous net hanging nonchalantly between two of the closest trees in the harsh, jagged gravel-lain property.

Beneath him, tiny razor-sharp stones dig deep into his skin, biting him, burning him with what feels like the surface of the sun. The boy winces as he shifts, trying to move again, to at least reach the metal table housing a pitcher of water.

It's so hard.

He can't catch his breath. His throat feels closed off, so dry, sticky with the curse of his sinuses. This heat, the very heat he praised, is somehow worse than the damnable cold. It only intensifies the throbbing of his head, the lethargy of his limbs and the labor of his lungs.

And this 'seating'... what is it?

Every time he's tried to balance it enough to spread himself on it, he is thrown to be sliced by the tiny ground-knives! It doesn't make sense! As if the venture down the stairs with that Ragnarok-like vocal entity poking fun at his whining, stumbling steps and pitiful attempts to quell the disgusting slime running from his face wasn't enough!

The pinkette gnarls low in his raw throat, holding back his hisses of protest at the gravel scraping at his palms, digging into his kneecaps as he drags himself forward. Stones grate against each other with his weight, the sound makes his teeth hurt. He just grits them, inching ever so slowly closer to that water.

The clear tasteless liquid has never looked so enticing than it does now as the focal point between his tacky ebon-coated digits. There must be something under all the rocks to get him so dirty. It makes sense, he's plowed into them forcefully for what seems like forever... But that doesn't matter.

He goes to grab for the red plastic cup accompanying the pitcher, but thinks better of it, grasping the whole of it instead. His hands are too shaky to pour and he's really thirsty. Crona puts the hot glass to his lips and lifts the vessel with both palms, fingers curled around its smooth curve and thick handle.

As soon as the warm fluid passes his chapped lips and slides down his tortured throat, he feels so much better. Like his entirety depends on this flavorless elixir, doesn't stop until his lungs protest the need for oxygen and half of the container is empty.

The teen coughs, wet and hard, vicious... But he doesn't care, it's satisfying almost. That is better than the gritty airy wheezes that only intensified the urge to continue hacking. Relieved, he sighs closing his eyes.

Moments ago, he felt like giving in to the heat, like collapsing face first onto the jagged pebbles and passing out from the exhaustion, letting the aches fade as his body cooked. Now, he actually feels good. Well,... better than earlier. The underlying worry of his brother's whereabouts still hovering in the back of his mind, but their mother as much as said that Ragnarok is okay.

Crona should trust her word, she loves them both. She would never put either of them in harms way; they are her life's work, the culmination of every bit of research and effort Doctor Gorgon has striven to achieve. She wouldn't lie to him about his brother's well being. The pinkette takes another sip, swallowing down the bitter taste rising at knowing his brother is somewhere, without him, probably experiencing the same things or more... without him. Knowing that he is probably just fine, unlike himself... without him. All the same, he grins, relishing the plain refreshment the water is providing him.

The boy chances a glance at the netted pouch hoisted between the trees and narrows his eyes. He'll stay on the gravel for now.

~O~O~O~

Maka's feet have probably never felt so wonderful before, she muses to herself as she dumps the last of her filthy, tattered clothing into a waste bin and straightens her blouse, bouncing and rocking a little from heel to toe. It's like with every step they are being massaged by a hot, husky accent having, muscle-clad masseur with fingers of silk and a firm touch like a pleasant steamroller.

The girl had shed her rancid outfit and donned a newer one, stashing other pilfered goods in a messenger bag she found during her raid. Luckily, part of her precious cargo consisted of unopened deodorant. The blonde had nearly squealed in delight in that moment, the aspect of finally being able to cut her body stench one of pure orgasmic bliss.

With sore feet newly empowered by sturdy gel-soled sneakers -that she endearingly named Sven- the blonde runs as fast as she can toward the gymnasium exit. She doesn't really care if anyone were to find her, she just wants to test the shoes out. They give off gratifying squeals that make her laugh like a child on a playground as she bolts from the door with a flourish; It bangs loudly on the wall next to it.

The teen slows her pace, skipping jovially through the passage that would lead to her escape. The halls don't seem so empty with the rhythmic beating of her thick soles on the stiff carpet, the many doors and other decorum pass by her sights in an animated blur.

Maka feels so free, like a kid on a sugar high! She giggles again at the ticklish fluttering of her stomach and the tingling lightness of her limbs and turns back down the main hall, still skipping and fingering the wide strap of her new purse with jittery digits.

Nothing can get her down, nothing can ruin this moment for her. She feels renewed, as if she's been awakened from a horrible dream.

The familiar set of heavy double doors come into view, but she doesn't stop. She fully intends on actually 'breaking out,' as she readies both her hand for clutching and twisting the handle and her shoulder for the impending impact. She lowers her body, pacing herself back into a jog.

She's going to tackle this bitch, take it down as if it punched her momma! The blonde flinches inwardly at her own thoughts. Bad choice of words, still too soon.

Her orbs set on target, fire burning in them as she wills her legs to pump harder, a silly scowl coming across her features, because she can't really be serious about this and the smile keeps messing it up.

The girl can't see anything but her foe, the barrier between her and the outside world; she's zeroed in and it doesn't stand a fucking chance.

"And what would a former graduate be doing back in school~," A condescending voice chimes behind Maka, making her slow to a stop and her face fall, "...Ms. Albarn?"

Maka closes her eyes, breathing deep just to calm herself.

This man, he gets on her last nerve. Her exhales are reminiscent of both a groan and a growl. She wants to bare her teeth, wants to just act like a rabid animal, to turn on this ungodly ever-cheery asshole that gets her blood to boil and vision to go red.

The blonde turns to face this man with a sweet smile plastered to her face and her hands at her chest.

"Oh gosh, dean Shinigami! It's been too long, how nice to see you again!" Lying through her teeth, she hopes he can't scent out her intent to kill by the look in her eyes. The smile should fool him right? It fools everyone.

She walks closer to the tall man, who is actually rather good-looking for a spindly middle-aged dude. But, the girl doesn't see him like that. She sees the man that turned his back on her mother, hiding her father's actions from her and Maka, providing alibies while papa continued to demolish their family; The very man that then betrayed the Albarn's entirely by shunning her kindly -how is that even fucking possible?!- and spreading word about her parent's situation like it was a public service announcement, an example of what not to do.

He wouldn't even shake her damn hand!

The teen gets even closer and can tell that he wants to take a step back with every one she takes forward. Smile growing as the rage builds further, she's grinding her teeth to keep from lashing out.

"Yes, yes, very nice Ms. Albarn!" He chuckles, running a hand through his shoulder-length raven hair, his gold-laced amber eyes looking off-center as he tries to compensate his unease through his wary curiosity. "What brings you here?"

The uncomfortable administrator wags a denunciatory gloved finger at her playfully. "Recess is over for you, you know~!"

Oh, she understands... He is still principle, his duty is this school and she is nothing but a trespasser. Maka comes in real close, quick and wryly wrapping her arms around the startled man who tenses beneath her.

"Mmmhuh!" She lets go to tuck her arms behind her and takes a couple steps back, watching him visibly relax but his sigh is hidden behind a grin that couldn't be more fake if he was trying.

"Oh you know, I take my health seriously!" Raising a brow as she tilts her head, the girl prays he can feel her undertone like dagger twisting in his back, "So, I figured I'd go for a run on the bleachers outside! It was wonderful, but," Maka pouts, "I got so hot and miserable, I figured I'd take a stroll in the a/c to cool down." Pausing, the blonde wets her lips.

"I'll be leaving here shortly, anyway." She cocks her head, furrowing her brows in mock concern. "I hope I wasn't doing anything wrong?"

"No! Not at all!" His white-gloved hands wave off her question trying to soothe her faux anxiety. She'll never understand the gloves, but they look cool. Maka wants them.

Ah, another day. She needs to leave, now before the locker room is checked on.

"Okay then!" Smiling again, she bites her lip. "That's great to know." Trying not to snort, she holds back her laughter... He bought it and she's home free.

"Just, if you come back, come get a visitor's pass, would ya?"

"Will do! Later~!" Maka retreats to the doors backwards, nodding like an idiot.

Feeling the handle at her back, she pivots quickly, waving behind her with her free hand as the ring and pinkie of her other works to open the barrier, pushing the heavy thing.

Immediately assaulted with scorching wind and blistering sunlight, she presses her back to the closed doors sighing in relief... and partial teen slips the leather fold into her new bag with a snicker before running off to the main entrance gate. It's a longer trek, but like hell is she going to climb the fence again.

Maka's in too high of spirits to ruin this feeling. She got him back, that prick.

He wouldn't touch her, so she forced a hug, disturbing the goofy douchebag a bit. The principle helped her father rip everything from her and then just left her ruined family crumbled and torn... She stole his fucking wallet.

The asshole's loaded, anyway, being from old money and early retiree of the County Council... It's not like he'll really miss any pocket green.

O.O.O

Mask in place and book in hand, Maka settles into the familiar stiff chair without a single word. Spirit's eyes are closed, she's not about to wake him just to sit down anyway. It's not like he talks to her, sees her or comprehends... at all.

No, he's just biding his time, taking up a bed and being completely and utterly useless. The man's a waste of electricity for the machinery to keep him running, a sponge for valuable medicines that will do him no good; all are an overcompensation of his worth.

Instead of her normal novel, she cracks open one of the new books she found. It looked good for a laugh. A two in one treat; the first in the dual of an alien crash-landing on Earth finding love in a 'plain Jane' with a dry sense of humor, the other of a vampire in what seems to be medieval breeding of the species or some shit like that.

The girl can't take it too seriously. Just the summary makes her want to snort, but she needs variety. What better variety than a 'love' between humans an intergalactic beings and emotionally-stunted night-dwelling bloodsuckers?

Soon enough, she's flipping through the pages, her eyes glazed and softened, avidly soaking in every word. The blonde finds herself immersed in the world of Lainey and the extra-terrestrial being Michaldkflksdjflksjd -whatever his real name is- Micah, for short, that takes the form of a young Fabio and his entertaining and adorable attempts to blend on this strange planet, until his space craft is located and he is saved.

The teen almost doesn't want to put the novel down, but she needs a shower. Maka doesn't want to prolong her 'borrowed clothes' stay over already dirty skin.

Taking a deep breath, pausing before digging into the purse. As great as she feels having clean things, as much as she wants to brush it aside, an icy weight churns in her stomach and tears burn at her eyes. Letting out a shaky exhale, she grabs a stick of deodordant and cherry scented shampoo and conditioner.

Those girls, they most likely know of Maka, probably have something to do with a little of her torment, but she never thought she would have fallen so low. Her heart, it aches, giving off hollow beats.

She feels so cold, so empty even with these things she stole to fill the void; now she is nothing but a common criminal. What if these items meant something to those girls? What if someone they cherished gave them these things and they are no longer in this world?

Maka knows loss. She also knows that now, she is the cause of some one else's. That hole has not been filled. If anything, it has just gotten deeper.

O.O.O

Is she still human? Is this what humans do?

They take, they are selfish. She takes, she is selfish. It's human nature, right?

Why does she feel so much more empty? There is blood running beneath her skin, right? Red like every other being like her?

The razor lays in pieces beneath the cooled rain, spouting from the chrome above. Maka holds the blade between sliced tips turning it, marveling at its thinness; how something so small could bring her the answers she seeks, bring the punishment she deserves and the pain that she begs for.

Hands move smoothly, possessed, her eyes unblinking as she breathes in slow, shallow but heavy pants. Beneath the razor's edge, her unblemished thigh, skin tanned from exposure to the Nevada sun for countless days.

Maka deserves no perfection. She presses down and gasps, mouth dropping in a sort of awe as she drags glinting metal across the caramel surface to make way for a crimson river, flowing lightly between the small cavern of abused flesh. All made by her own hand.

Dull jade watches in fascination as the blood dilutes with the shower's spray, surrounding her in a beautiful puddle of pink. Pulsing with every heartbeat, throbbing with the cascading water and stinging at it's impact, the wound serves its purpose.

She feels... feels the pain.

It will scar, she's sure... the blonde is counting on it. It will be a constant reminder of what she has done, what she has become, what she doesn't deserve and what all these people, everyone, are afraid of.

Maka doesn't deserve perfection, in any sense. She doesn't deserve anything but this, because now, it's impossible for her to stop. And... she doesn't want to. The girl is selfish; she wants to give herself everything she deserves. She will take and she will give. Because, she wants it all.

The blonde stares blankly at the slice with a tight line pressed at her lips, dead center a crazed grin and deep frown. The salt of her eyes washed away with the falls of cold water overhead.

~O~O~O~

He's going to get it this time.

Crona spreads out the braided twine with his sore palms, flattening out the odd seat's surface. Carefully, he turns his body, replacing his hands on either side of the net as he backs into it.

The square-sectioned material is flat on his back, his arms spread wide. The boy moves them downward, gingerly hooking his thumbs at the bottom of this thing so that he may get it to curve over his backside, to support it.

At this point, he'd be happy just to lean against it like this. But, that's not what she wants and the pinkette doesn't want her to see him fail. Maybe if he gets this right, it will show her that he can handle the impossible. Maybe he'll be able to see Ragnarok again, even just a small visit...

Surely, this is a test. Why else would there be this... thing... instead of a normal chair? Why, when he was so sick?

At least that's one thing that has gone right. He can breathe through his nostrils and his lungs no longer rattle, throat almost as good as new. The only thing left to conquer is this... seat.

Crona lifts one leg to allow for the rough rope patches to cup one buttock before working the other the same way. So far, so good. Now, to scoot farther into the center...

He is propelled backward, wrapped into the excess of the netting as it gives one full rotation before depositing the teen harshly to the angry dagger-stones below.

Again.

He... He really can't handle this.

This isn't a seat, it is Hell in the form of sketchy furniture! Prickling vinelike Satan to mock and taunt him with comfort when all it offers is pain and laughs at his aching body in the form of creaking cricks as it sways between the trunks of lovely shade-bearing trees.

Crona picks himself back up, facing the net with a scowl. He rushes it, swinging his arms blindly in his frustration; turning, kicking, flipping. He can't really tell what his body is doing anymore, he just knows that he's HAD IT. The boy's angry at this thing for not cooperating. He's tired.

He doesn't want to fail.

The pinkette huffs and opens his crystal blue eyes, seeing clouds in the sky through a frame of swaying green.

No way.

Way.

There he lays, innermost of prickling twine diamonds as the net seemingly sways calmly, protesting his added weight in a lulling rhythm. Crona dares not move; all muscles are tense, his limbs stiff as a board.

How long does he have to stay here? Does he wait until Doctor Gorgon tells him to go inside? What if he has to use the restroom?! He has no idea how he managed to get into this thing, doing it again... highly unlikely.

Should he just hold it, if that time comes? Could he do anything else? He doesn't even know, but he stays still, rocking with the hot breeze and looking helplessly toward the fence, trying to keep his mind off of the restroom. He did have quite a bit of water, after all.

All of the colors are astonishing, beyond the wooden slats and bars of black. He sees figures moving about and watching them interact with each other, run, walk, play on odd vibrant contraptions; it's all... interesting.

Though, none of this catches his attention quite like the first person he saw. That girl with deep golden hair and green eyes so bright, yet dull. The way she cut through his kaleidoscopic reverie with her oblivious grace so passively. How could someone who has lived out there, free to enjoy these things that he has just gotten to experience, seem so uninterested and empty?

Why is he watching for her now? Why does he feel disappointed? It doesn't make any sense.

The boy shakes his head, to clear it of the confusion and the motion tilts the ropes. A jerk and his eyes widen, he gives a startled yelp, gripping the net tightly, trying to calm his heart of it's mini-stroke and the swinging of his twine captor.

The pinkette doesn't know what this thing is, but he knows that he hates it. Next time, he'll just lean against it. Or, stay on the gravel. It's not so bad down there if he's not thrown.

Crona suppresses a shudder, not wanting risk moving this thing again.

He whimpers, pressing his legs tightly together. Because, now...

Now he has to pee.

~O~O~O~

Every step she takes, every swing of her leg, every swish of her skirt and pound from her full bag; the small gash stings anew reminding her that she is alive, is feared, that she is no longer numb. Only in this moment... She has been punished.

And in a way, it's nice.

Because, for once she has something beside distant memories and chilling loneliness to keep her company along her journey through the city. The blonde's eyes are still blank as they scan her surroundings, feet moving without much thought behind them.

Maka crosses the street and continues past large buildings, people making way for her. She can feel their eyes, but she pretends not to notice. They look at her like an elephant taking a shit at the zoo; Disgusted, but somewhat fascinated and unnerved by her presence. It's like they can't look away. They have to see everything she does until she's no longer in their line of sight.

All of them.

Like they are just waiting for her to snap, to attack, so that they will be ready. So that they can haul ass and protect themselves... From nothing. All of these people, familiar and unknown, are stupid.

The teen chews on the inside of her cheek as she rounds the cinderbrick corner, fingers habitually reaching out to brush along the dark iron bars as they replace the cement at her side. The tips of her digits strum a beat with every movement forward, almost in tune with her heart.

It's still relatively early, roughly noon or a little after. Maka couldn't sit in that hospital any more. She did not want to be near him, didn't want to deal with another nurse. She just wants to go back to her tree, get sucked into her peculiarly intriguing alien romance story so that she can pretend the world she lives in doesn't really suck as much as it really does.

And, maybe to daydream a little that a hot Fabio-looking alien dude will crash land mysteriously from the heavens and take her... away from here.

Yeah.

The girl's face flushes slightly and she rolls her eyes a bit as she goes to press on through the gate but stops. Her face pales a bit. Maka can feel it as if it is burning holes in the back of her skull, but it's different than what she's used to. She whips around, supporting herself at the gate's hinge trying to locate where this attention is coming from.

No one is there. The blonde purses her lips, looking around once again to be sure. This street and it's sidewalks are bare. The only people here are those within the park.

"Huh... Weird..." She grunts to herself, not really convinced by her own eyes... But, they don't lie. Sighing, she shrugs making her way to that spot, digging through the bag to retrieve her book and nestles herself as comfortably she can in the root's dent.

Within a moment of getting settled, Maka's stomach growls loudly, bubbling and constricting achingly. She smiles broadly. The girl can't really remember the last time she's had a proper meal, but damn it if she'd forget part of her spoils of the day!

Dropping the book to her lap, she hastily brings the bag to her belly, rummaging through all of her filched wares.

"Ah ha!" Victoriously, snatching her hand from the bag, the teen wields her prize like it's the holy grail. "Hellllll yessss!"

Fingers shaking as they work to peel the plastic from her treasure, tears mist at her emerald orbs as it's beauty is finally unveiled.

"... No one touches my Butterfinger..." Maka whispers huskily to the slightly melted treat. "No one." Biting into it savagely, she moans in bliss and approval as the chocolate coats her mouth in its rich sweetness and the center gets stuck in the crevices of her teeth. The blonde soaks in her satisfaction a moment longer before picking her book back up to delve further into the lives of Micah and Lainey, candy hovering close to her lips.

Grass crunches from all around her but she pays it no mind as she flips another crisp page. It's probably just kids playing 'hide and seek' or some other type of motion/retrieval game. Nothing of interest.

Something smacks into her forehead, temporarily blinding her with the shock of it's force that just had to end up in the same place as the frisbee folly. She drops the candybar and book to cradle her head in her hands. The teen's so dizzy, vision blurred, her skull is pounding, stabbing jolts shock at her with every pulse.

"God damn it..." Maka groans, her hand gingerly rubs at the dual injury. It's wet.

Through squinted orbs, Maka looks at her palm and fingers. Blood. She is bleeding and just spread it all over the top of her face after having just bathed. There's so much of it, it's probably soaking into her bangs, too.

Fucking great.

Maka growls in frustration, glaring at the direction the projectile came from. She sees no faces, only the fading backs of probable culprits. This... This was just an act of immaturity... right? They couldn't have meant to just chuck a rock at her and run, right? People don't just fucking do that, do they? The teen feels a burning at her eyes but she quickly blinks the sensation away.

Maka hopes that it was just a mistake, because if these people have progressed on to physical violence she would think they'd at least give her the decency to know who her attackers are. Shit, she wouldn't even try stop it.

Pain is better than this empty numbness, but to be met with it at random with nothing to put it with just makes her feel so much colder. A frigid hollow shell in the middle of this scorching desert city.

A ruby trickle trails the corner of her nose to her chin, dripping on to her new brown skirt in slow droplets. She doesn't care enough to wipe it or clean it off right now. She just watches it's slow splatter listlessly.

She's never clean to them anyway, why does it matter?

~O~O~O~

With a slight creak, both doors swing open clearing the way for him to make his return to the outside world, safe behind the fence. Crona's bare feet pad lightly over the gravel to minimize stabbing, though it is a useless task. He sighs upon a glimpse of the thing between the trees.

The pinkette will try again, because that is what the doctor wanted, what his mother wanted, from him. Just... not right now. Right now, he feels the need to see the bright colors sway within the heat-breeze and watch as others live their life. Outside of captivity.

Because, it's one thing to read about and imagine it, another thing to witness it with your own eyes. Pale-rose locks flap with hot gusts as he gingerly moves through the property, past isolated trees and bushes... and that thing.

The boy presses his face into the slats to look through the narrow gap and lets out an immediate gasp, as if his breath were stolen from him.

She's back.

She stops and Crona's heart beats bruises in his chest, he's curious what she's doing. The blonde girl looks much more aware than the last he saw, but still vacant, as if she's missing something, thinking so deeply on it that the world around her doesn't matter. But, he doesn't know. This outside world is so much more than the books he's read and so very different. The teen's anticipation builds over this one live character that has stolen his attentions over every mystery of this beautiful yet dark place, though, he can't just skip ahead and figure her out.

He may never know.

She turns, looking straight at him. He nearly cries out falling back, startled at her action. Scuttling back over to the crevice, crystal blue peers out again. He can't not see what comes next.

The girl, her delicate face is contorted in confusion as her head whips back and forth, pigtails flipping with every turn. No, she didn't see him.

For some reason, his stomach seems to plummet, his chest feels heavy. He doesn't really understand, but the thought upset him; not being seen by this blonde girl with eyes like jade, the first person he has seen outside of his home. It's silly. The boy should have known it was just coincidence... No one else has ever seen him.

He doesn't exist to anyone beyond the gate.

Crona exhales deeply, wetting chapped lips as he gets a little closer. She walks through the black-barred gate, deeper into the lively colors, they seem to swallow her whole. He stares at where she had been, the hues appearing to blur and fade until all is left clear is the path that she had taken.

A longing to unravel the tale behind those dull yet sparkling eyes burrows deep at his core, almost aching. Plotlines of fiction he's read start running through his mind, the girl a protagonist as his surroundings darken the further he is dragged into his thoughts.

Laughter breaks him from his mind. He blinks.

It's such an odd sound, coming from so many as they scramble to pass through the narrow ebony gateway. The pinkette tilts his head, observing the strange scene.

"How are you feeling, Crona?"

He inhales sharply, palming his chest over his heart, the detached query catching the boy off guard. Crona turns, averting his gaze to the ground. He can't look at her, can't let her know how much she scares him. Doctor Gorgon is his mother, the boy can't show her that he's scared of his own mother. It would hurt her, right?

He doesn't want to hurt her, just wants her to be pleased with him... Her work.

"I'm feeling well, Doctor." His words are still a little thick, nasally from the light remaining stuffiness, but otherwise true. "M-Much better than this morning, thank you."

He shifts his weight, glancing at her as he stands. She's studying him with a smirk on her face, like a prize, satisfied. Crona breathes out heavily, like a weight had been lifted.

"Good, good." Medusa crosses her arms, a finger tapping at the crook of one bow. "Are you having any more dizzy spells, lethargy, chills, or aches and pain?"

"No, Doctor Gorgon."

"Congestion, runny nose, sore throat, nausea, or diarrhea?" Crona scrunches his nose, but shakes his head again staying silent as she continues.

"Are you still coughing, started sneezing, having any difficulty with cognitive or motor function?" He says nothing, but his eyes wander to the swaying net and he sighs in defeat. Seeing this, she raises a brow.

"Well?" Impatiently, the woman presses.

"No, Doctor Gorgon. I-I haven't had any real issues for a while." The teen twists his hands in one another, averting his gaze.

"Just haven't been able to use the seat." Embarrassed, his steam fades, cheeks tinting as he lackadaisically points a limp finger at the twined ropes.

"Now, now..." Superciliously she tilts her head giving him a pointed stare, "Would that be due to a deficiency in your motor skills, or incompetence? I wonder..." Medusa hums as he bows his head to hide his deepening frown.

"Never mind that," she sneers behind a tight plastered smile, "I have some charts I'd like to run with your recent vitals. Come along." Pivoting on her heel, Medusa stalks past Crona without a passing glance. She knows he will follow and he does.

The boy's already disappointed her today and will do what it takes to make it up to her. He and Ragnarok are her sons, her subjects, tests and experiments. Her life's work. What good is Crona if he can't exceed her expectations, can't pull off even a simple a task as sitting in an odd seat? A failure? Worthless? Disposable?

Did Ragnanrok have the same experience? Did he even get sick? The pinkette ponders as he pads across the stone-strewn yard. Shaking his head slightly, he draws his own conclusion: No, the other teen probably had no issues. His dark-haired twin has a knack for sticking tough through everything; a net between foilage would be nothing for him.

O.O.O

"Take these." Medusa thrusts two white plastic-looking capsules into Crona's palm, dropping them quickly without regard to his confused glance.

She's never given him medication without any explanation, so this comes as a bit of a shock, but he swallows them dry without question, swishing away the bitterness after they make their tacky journey down his throat. He almost feels them burst in his esophagus, the odd texture sends a chill down his spine.

Soon, his eyes seem heavy, clouded and his head feels... funny. Weightless and yet too much to hold upright. Where is he even looking anymore? Up, down, sideways, the wall? A fleeting glimpse of his mother's golden orbs flash, spinning with the rest of his surroundings.

He smells the alcohol, it stings his nostrils as Medusa's cold fingers hold his arm, prepping a vein. The pinkette is swaying, losing the battle with his heavy lids. He falls back on the canvas of the cot. Crona can't think, can't process much more than the overwhelming desire to shut his eyes and submit.

He feels a prick. Blurred vision takes in his mother's latex-covered hands, amber lighting in anticipatory glee and the needle in his arm filling with a substance black as he's read night is. It makes the boy dizzy, so very dizzy. Everything is spinning, swirling, yet the black remains still.

What's... What is happening? Why is..? What is that... Black..? Black? Black is dark, just like when he closes his eyes.

That sounds nice.

His blue eyes can't focus, they are rolling, eyelids drooping. He... He just can't fight any more. He can't win. The teen croaks out a strangled airy groan before he admits defeat, body falling limp.

Medusa rips the metal from the sleeping boy's arm, depositing the full tube into her coat pocket and capping the sharp edge, humming a soothing tune warped by her smirk.

"Highly adaptable to environmental contagions, rapid rate of epidermal recovery." Twirling her twisted golden front-braid idly, she chuckles. "Maybe you're ready to do anything for _mommy dearest_, hmmmm?" Medusa slips out of the room without a second glance, cackles echoing through the barren hall.

O~O~O

Maka reaches up to touch the wound on her head. It's crusted now, fingers trailing the grit to her chin. Her green eyes are dim, glossed over as she pulls away to look at the flecks of deep garnet sprinkled, spread into the grooves of her prints.

Laughter and chatter surround her, the tree's leaves click together as a warm breeze sweeps past, and yet, she hears nothing but her own heartbeat and the slow breaths she takes. Bowing her head, sanguine-caked flaxen bangs cover those lifeless eyes.

She deserves this. Maybe by trying to inflict her own punishment -which is more like relief- she deserved this as karmic retaliation. The girl isn't entitled to rationalization, she's to take what is given. Sighing, licking her lips to quell their chapping, her orbs wander the lawn before and around her.

She grabs her book, replacing it to it's nook on her lap and digs in her bag, scowling. Pulling some facewipes, the blonde cleans herself off and glaring side to side, yanks the candybar from the ground grumbling under her breath.

Wiping it off, taking a melted layer from it with a clean cloth, she puts it in her mouth. Fuck germs and dirt, she's hungry damn it. A satisfied smile curves her chocolate stuffed mouth.

"Worth it~."

**Author's Note:**_ Yeah... Mr. Shinigami sounds stupid... But honestly, it was either that or and I just didn't like those. lol And if you didn't catch it, that was Crona with a 'man-cold.' If you have never had to deal with a man with a man-cold, I don't expect you to get it... but yeah. To tell you the truth, I was laughing the whole way through typing that. SO DIRE! My husband may have gotten a little offended when I sent it to him to proof-read. ::troll-face::_

_Oh! and that net, between the trees? A hammock. Yeah, I'm sure you could figure it out... but I just wanted to type hammock twice. :P See?_

_Also, I'm not sure if I covered this in my other notes, but most of this stuff is based on some of real-life happenings during my junior year, senior year and after graduation (mostly just the actions, not you know, diseases and other *some* obvious plot devices...) So yeah, I'm probably not going to censor too much, everything formatted to fit the storyline, of course... I'm still not proud of most of it and do not advise anyone try anything you will see. Sorry, had to say it again!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people. Other real-life stuff and references to other Anime/manga things... I don't own those either... like Sharpies(Frederick W. Redington, Tom Sharp, William H. Sanford, Jr.) and Lysol(Reckitt Benckiser)? Not mine.

**Chapter 3:**

_"No more!" Ragnarok grips short inky locks in distress as the song replays on loop. "No! No! NO!" He screams, burying his face into the rough bedding covering his ears with his forearms, toes beating at the material like drums with every kick, trying to drown out the all-too familiar melody._

_"Ragna-" It scares him when he gets like this. Crona tries to say something, anything to lessen his brother's outburst, but is cut off. _

_"NO!" The word comes out muffled, but the message clear. He's tired of this. Well, Crona is too. He hears it when he sleeps, it follows him even when he showers. The speakers are unseen but everywhere. They can't get away from it._

_How many times since that one morning have they heard this song? Had to see these awful letters dance across the screen along to cheery singing from an invisible person? He doesn't know, Crona can't count that high yet. But, it's a lot._

_"Ragnarok, Doccer want us learn." He tries again, but his voice is barely even audible above the happy tune. The pink-haired boy scuttles over from his perch on the cold floor to his brother's cot, his tiny fist timidly knocks on the metal bars to get the boy's attention. _

_He doesn't touch his brother and Ragnarok doesn't touch him. Touch hurts. It always does. They don't want to hurt any more than they have to. Crona waits patiently before knocking again, a little louder._

_"Ragnarok?"_

_Ragnarok stops kicking, the grip at his scalp loosening, his back moving up and down rapidly as he catches his breath. Slowly, he turns his head. His normally pale cheeks are almost look ashy, dirty, little dark brows set in a deep scowl among slit moisture-rimmed blue and bruised bags. _

_The small pinkette knows he's not mad at him, it still doesn't make him feel good. Tilting his head, a weak sympathetic smile on spreads across tiny dry lips._

_"I sorry."_

_"Shut up." His brows furrow further, but his lips twitch upwards._

_The music stops and the screen goes blank. All is quiet. Ragnarok heaves an astonished chuckle, baby blue eyes brightening as he flips his body around to lay on his back, propping his leg up on a knee. _

_"It's gone!" He giggles loudly, cheering with chubby fists. _

_"All gone!" Crona smiles and joins him in his relieved laughter._

_A new tune filters through the room, their chuckles die on their lips, arms fall limp as they immediately scan the screen for the next torment, their next lesson. Both boys, watch intently as the different hues and unfamiliar words cross the screen. They will soak in everything, do as they are told. What else can they do? They are surrounded, this is what they are supposed to do; what their mother wants for them. How many days will this last? Will this haunt their dreams as well as that 'alphabet' thing? _

_Probably._

_Crona looks over at the raven-haired tot, lain out on his metal-framed bunk, smiling a little. At least he has his brother, they will never really have to be alone._

_Ragnarok's head whips over, narrow orbs falling on Crona. The pinkette tenses, startled at the sudden attention. Ragnarok smiles back, his similar blue eyes softening as if he read his mind. They are in this together._

O.O.O

With a jolt and a sharp inhale, Crona's eyes spring open, automatically searching the cot across the way.

It was just a dream.

It felt so real. Like he and his brother were really just kids again, that he was still with him, still in this room, still learning basic vocabulary... And not alone.

His stomach clenches. He hates this, doesn't want to be alone now. The teen wants to see his brother, feels so incomplete, empty without him here. But, he can't. Doctor Gorgon has taken him, split them up, something neither thought to be a possibility. The blonde woman said he's stable, that he's okay.

Her word is law.

Crona should believe her, he doesn't have any reason not to. But, he can't help but feel that something isn't right. Something is wrong, so wrong. He still doesn't know, can only run with what his mother has given him. The pinkette can only put his trust in those cold yellow eyes, that serpentine smile... In her love. Crona shivers at just the thought of that word.

Running a shaky hand through choppy locks, careful not to touch his scalp, he blows out a ragged breath. It doesn't mean he has to like the situation. He despises it. But, his feelings don't matter. They are her subjects, tools and research. Emotions, those are pointless. She must have a reason, one that he'll never be privy to.

That should be enough, but he craves more. Crona clenches his jaw, squeezes his lids shut, a palm flat against his pounding chest.

"You've spent enough fucking time in this room, don't you think, dipshit?" That vociferation growls, it's such a relief. Just to hear it again, if only he could see him...

"HEY! GET THE FUCK UP!" Crona snorts at this, a small grin forming as he lazily rolls from the cot to the floor.

"Nnngh." Groaning a little, the boy hits hard icy surface with an 'oof.' He doesn't want to open his eyes, but cracks one anyway. Disappointment doesn't surprise him, he knows that was just his imagination, his own way to deal with his brother's absence. Still, he can wish, right?

Pushing up from the floor, he heads through the door and into the large house -once again, like he has for at least a week now- to soak in as much of what little of the world he can. His pulse quickens, he picks up his pace down the stairs and onward to those double doors.

He'll see her again.

Knowing this, it excites him that she is a near-constant now in his day-to-day. Even if she never truly notices. Her momentary presence is something he looks forward to; like reading the next line of text within a paragraph, unfolding mental imagery piece by piece.

That soft melancholy in her emerald eyes calls to him, her movements mesmerize him, the air of isolation sparks a flame of kinship within him. She seems so unlike the other people that pass, their faces forgettable; blurs of features that seem unremarkable. Though, the pink-haired boy could never forget her.

She is the first he saw, the only he really seems to see any more.

It's weird to think that he is so mentally attached to someone he doesn't know; that doesn't know him. But, that is just how it is, how it has been. She captivates him, intrigues him, piques his interest.

Crona ambles in careful steps across the gravel, practiced, skilled enough that now it doesn't even sting, to sit at the fence. Watching. Waiting.

~O~O~O~

It all started with her locker room heist. The rush, instant gratification, the idea of retaliation, of taking what she should have, replacing the things that she has lost. Then she started picking up random unattended odds and ends, including the occasional coinpurse or unbitten hotdog from momentarily abandoned tables. And now, she stands outside of the first actual store on her hit-list, biting her lips and bouncing in anticipation.

These fuckers. Oh, she's going to fucking show them!

Snooty employees told to black-list her fucking application, making it impossible for her to find work; not just here, but in the whole damned town. It left her unable to support herself, eat, or provide common everyday necessities. Unable to escape. Well, they are in for a rude awakening. It's their fucking fault, just as much as her father's... and her own. But damn it if she's going to do without!

If Maka is to be shunned, taunted and held in contempt by those around her, she's going to give them a damn good reason! She brushes off her blouse and rubs the creases out of her pants, straightening her bag as she walks in with her head held high, a determined glint in her eye.

"Good mor-," a red-headed door clerk begins, waving, but quiets as he takes her in, "-ning." His hand falls limply at his side. She scoffs, passing by without a word.

She can feel the stares. They are always around, always watching, always judging, tearing her down silently. Meeting each gaze in turn, her own narrowed, daring, she treks the shining laminate flooring through the overly bright center, light paling her image and dulling her existence further as she glides to the health and beauty section. Far too quiet is this packed store, it's just the clicking of shoes and a murmur of whispers to accompany her along her stride, prodding her nerves, making the blonde's hair stand on end.

Every aisle she turns down mysteriously empties, shuffles of clamoring feet hurrying over to the next row, leaving her alone to do as she wants. It's hilarious, actually. Fully grown adults and teens alike fear her for what they don't know that she doesn't have. Scuttling away like skittish sheep being rounded and corralled. A chilling flame burns within, the girl's heart twinges at the threat of frostbite but she doesn't even flinch. The only way to make this better is to show them, acquiring the things she wants without a second thought. These people won't stand in her way, figuratively, of course... They won't come anywhere near her.

Maka plucks toothbrushes and pricey miniature toothpaste tubes from the 'travel-sized' shelves, tossing them from closed-palm discreetly into her opened pouch at the side of her bag. Moving on, opening a pack of tampons and slowly transferring the contents into her bag, she looks at a different product.

It just so happened to be hair-coloring for down-stairs and she giggles, unable to help herself. Of course that would be what she'd pretend to be interested in. As if she wanted to show off a newly violet-tipped bush.

Pssh. Much like shaving, no point. It's silly, none-the-less. Who dyes that? Maka wanders as she ponders the many scenarios of mis-coloring she has experienced in the past, relating them to the cooter area. The resulting mind-pictures are beyond disturbing.

Somehow, she finds herself skipping through the store, humming "London Bridge" to herself; dye distraction and adrenaline fogs her head as she unloads granola bars one by one and other snacks into her bag. The emerald-eyed teen's hands move quicker than she thought they possibly could. Fingers on her deft hands twitch, itching to grab on to more but at a loss with the store's lack of selection.

Meats, dairy, cans, nothing but a waste of precious, precious space. Why bother when refrigeration is out of the question and the aluminum would just add to the weight of her sack. With the conditions the blonde has been living in, it just sounds like wasted effort.

Suddenly she finds herself stopping at the nearest register at the store's exit, the racks of candy catching her hungry pointed stared. It looks so good, she wants it and at this moment, Maka will get what she wants. Plucking a little bag of M&M's from the shelf, she tears into the package and dumps them into her mouth.

She's in plain sight, but doesn't care. Looking the cashier in the eye, she flips her off and chews her candy-coated chocolate. Airy chuckles jerk her about, escaping her nostrils as she stares the girl down, as these shoppers watch her eat the pilfered junk holding an obscene gesture toward the flustered register operator, unsure of what they should do. The pig-tailed blonde swallows and drops her hand, giggling as she backs out of the sliding door with a brown tongue out.

Maka hears their whispers, the gasps, feels their shocked stares burning into her like an inferno blazing over her flesh, or maybe that is just the atmosphere outside that just blasted her as she left that cool building... Whatever, it tickles and only makes her laugh harder. Her ribs ache, her body is jittery, but she keeps on, turning to prance along the sidewalk with an almost demented merriment.

Because they won't do a single God damned thing to stop her.

The girl's full-out cackling now, outside of the store's view and in the desolate filth-ridden side-alley, doubled over. Forgotten papers rustle across mold-sticky concrete, accentuating the giggles, her lungs forcing them out in violent wracks. It's sharp and painful, even. Her head is swimming against harsh currents, unable to stay afloat, but does she even want to?

They... They won't stop her. She can get away with any damn thing she wants, because they all want nothing to do with her. Maka is so fucking free; no responsibilities, no repercussions... Nothing. It feel's so good, right? ... This freedom jolting along her sides with that ghastly sound?

The ground is wet. Why? Why is the ground wet? Absently, she wipes at her face with a shaking palm. The answer is clear: those weren't laughs. Somewhere along the line, she started sobbing, loudly, uncontrollably.

But, when the hell was that?

The blonde falls to her knees the salty moisture soaking her joints as the rubbish beneath sticks to the fabric. Her thigh pulses, stinging as each cut crackles open from their scabs, staining her black pants a darker shade at the outside seam.

"Well, isn't that something?" The question cracks, she leans back on her heels. Maka sniffs, tracing the growing smear at her leg with an idle finger. "I could have it all..." Chuckling dryly at her own paltry joke, she stands.

"I really could, huh?" Words pass her lips on a sigh and she stumbles out of the shaded alley. "Maybe I'll test the theory one day."

The teen's tired. Not really physically, though, maybe she could use some sleep, too. She can't look at the faces all around her, can't handle walking about knowing that all they will do is stare at her. Those people will judge her, condemn her.

She just wants to forget; slip away into another realm where she is omnipotent, watching over others lead their strange lives, having unfathomable adventures.

Here, in this overpopulated city, crowded with people packed into apartment buildings and residential communities like sardines in a can... It's lonely. It's cold in this heat with no one to confide in. All she has is herself, all she needs is herself. But what good is the girl to herself if she's just a shell, empty and hollow with no purpose?

She's just... Not.

A loud car horn startles her and she finishes crossing the street, stepping up onto the sidewalk.

Shit. They won't even dare to hit her with their vehicles. Snorting, the blonde rounds that familiar bend with inky black bars at her side.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand again, her nerves tingle and goosebumps spread. It's been like this every time she's come to the park lately. Once again, she searches the pavement on all sides of her, looks into the park... Nothing. Maka turns around for one more glance.

That's when she finds them.

Those eyes that watch her in curiosity, not out of malice or pity. The person that has always eluded her scan, hidden well by a high fence. Yet that person hasn't moved an inch, those blue orbs only slightly widen, yet steady and on her from beyond planks of grainy wood.

She freezes, Maka wasn't exactly expecting to find anything. It's kind of awkward, actually. Should she wave? Carry on and Ignore this person? Yell? Gesture obscenely? Smile? Walk over?

It's odd not to be the center of negative attention. Even more so, by this person with such an awed inquisitive stare.

She runs a hand through a blonde pig-tail and scratches the back of her neck, quirking a brow and shaking her head as she slides past the creaky ebon gate. Maka can't deal with this right now. It makes her feel weird.

The green-eyed girl just wants to read.

Plopping down between the cozy gap between roots, she pulls her book and cracks it to the folded page. But, she's not seeing the words no matter how much she squints or how low her brows travel attempting to grasp at concentration. All she can see are those huge eyes, so light, so deeply blue looking at her from the pages.

Groaning in frustration, Maka rubs at her face. Fuck it. She'll just shoot for sleep. Anything to take this day far, far away.

~O~O~O~

She... she saw him. Looked straight at him, and he just froze. Struck still in time as soon as those emerald eyes focused on him. He could not blink, couldn't move. Crona is almost certain he wasn't even breathing, judging by the gasping inhale he took as soon as she faded into the greenery, beyond the black.

The boy can't think straight, most likely couldn't form a coherent sentence if his life depended on it. The first person he's ever seen beyond this home has just become the first to notice him. It's surreal, almost... If he wasn't sitting on jagged rocks and stuck behind this wooden fence. If he had his brother here to witness, to experience this.

Has he done this? What has he been doing? What is he doing right now? What does Doctor Gorgon have planned for his noirette twin? ... For Crona? The gravel scrapes against his skin, digging deep into his palm as the blue-orbed teen grips his fist.

"There's got to be something..." Focus shifting, Crona mumbles. He's thinking, probably too much. But, he has never gone this long without ending up on that cold metal slab and if it's not him... Crona gulps, swallowing past the lump that has formed. "Ragnarok..."

"God, quit your whining!" That Ragnarok-esque modulation growls, causing the pinkette to loosen grip on the rocks. "You sound like you should be slitting, listening to music by singers with Flock of Seagulls haircuts and tears in their make-up lined eyes, you puss."

"..." Crona tilts his head, bewilderment written all over his features. "W-what..?" For some reason, he can't catch a good enough breath to speak more than an airy whisper. But, he has no clue what... just, what? Shooting a glance over each shoulder, he frowns, even more confused. That made no sense! He grits his teeth, hands gripping at his garment's hem.

The boy doesn't understand.

Yes, this voice is comforting in a sense, but just as much so, it increases his need to see his brother. Something he can't have until their mother permits it... If she ever will. Not only that, but it says things that only his brother would. How is it possible for his own mind to subconsciously think up these things?

Is so much time together to blame? It just doesn't seem like that would be the answer. Too simple. Nothing this troubling is that damn simple!

Crona's knuckles are white, he's twisting the fabric so tightly, wringing it in his frustration. A sharp pain shocks him into the now, and he releases the material, fingertips flying to inspect the sudden infliction. A small gash in the middle of his bottom lip, it stings with the grit on his fingertips so he licks it to lessen the mess.

He didn't think his hands were that dirty, they were just strangling cloth. Surely that would have gotten the gravel dust off of them, right? Even though the pain ebbs to nothing, he still looks down to inspect them.

Crona gasps.

It's as if everything but his digits fade away into nothing, for that is all he can see; all that he can focus on. It... It wasn't just a dream. This wasn't just his imagination, or a side-effect hallucination caused by medications...

His, it really was... His blood... It's black. His blood is black.

Rubbing the ink-like substance between tremorous lithe fingers, he watches dazedly as it spreads, coating his tips, dipping into his prints, the wetness sliding down their lengths lazily as he lifts them higher; eye level.

And he laughs, confounded rasps escaping his gaped, blood-smeared maw.

"... My blood," Chuckles the nescient-drunk teen, the rasps gritty, heartier as an odd grin stretches across features as his mind snaps, "My blood is black."

"Alright, the creep is strong with you. Point is made and crystal fucking clear, now stop with the evillish 'mwa ha's' and chill!"

Crona only laughs harder. He doesn't understand! He never understands, but this! Oh, this, all of it, takes the prize. He's blanking, doesn't know what to think. And, at this very minute, he doesn't need to.

It's a relief! He feels so light, so tingly! His flesh is drowning in the pins and needles and numb. It's so... weird. And funny! The pinkette doesn't know what's going on. He doubles over as the giggles come in strong waves, his ribs ache. He never knows! He'll never know, pressing palms to his sides, he laughs even harder.

Because it's so sad that it's funny. His whole existence, this, his brother, that voice, the blonde girl, every one else in this big world he's only seen a fraction of, his mother, love... It's all one big fat joke, right? He gets it, it's absolutely hilarious!

O.O.O

Calignosity paints the desert sky above as a warm breeze rattles leaves upon branches and crickets call into the night. Everything is so loud. So loud, but silent all the same. Porous stones below dig into his trembling limbs as his orbs stare blindly at and beyond the wood.

So dark. When did it get so dark out? Wasn't the sun just out, broiling everything under it? The pinkette doesn't like this darkness, it's unfamiliar, deep, suffocating... It's black. Black like the ebony ink that apparently flows through his own veins.

Crona doesn't move, he can't. This... He expected to be different with all of Doctor Gorgon's research, with all of her experiments and testing. But this...

Everyone bleeds red. Every living person. So, does this make him more or less than everyone else? Is he even human anymore? Body so heavy, this new burden, new responsibility, it's so much. Too much. What does she want with him? Does she want to do this to the people out there? What does this even accomplish? The boy's eyes burn. They're dry, he doesn't even know if he's blinked since he noticed the sky.

Does Ragnarok have black blood? Is that why his incisions scarred that color? So it wasn't an infection...Or maybe it is. Crona's breath comes in rapid pants, crystal eyes dilated, scanning the night air for nothing in particular.

He can't grasp this information, can't process it in a way that will make any sort of sense. What is the purpose? What is his purpose? Biting at his lip, he winces at his own pressure and sucks at the swollen tender cushion to soothe it.

He blinks.

Was this what she wanted? Is this a sign of success or failure? Shakily, he rubs at his numb legs before stumbling to a stand. Rocky edges dig into bare soles, sending shocks and stabs of racing prickling pain up his sleeping limbs, his knees buckle a bit. The boy steadies himself against the fence's grain, until the sensation fades. He needs to go inside. He needs to escape the shadows, needs the light. Crona needs familiarity.

Toeing cautiously across the gravel, past isolated trees and foliage he reaches the doors, opening them with a grinding creak.

Crona flinches.

Everything seems so loud when all else is silent, this bright house illusory in contrast with the jet expanse outside. It gives him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he swallows it down, following the path he's recently taken many times.

The marble beneath him works with each step to chill his feet, cold travelling up his legs spreading rapidly to freeze him to the core. The pinkette shivers as he grasps the handrail at the staircase, taking a moment to gather himself.

Stairs aren't helping that anxious boring pit within him, at all, but he forces himself upward; grip taut, knuckles ghostly white as tugs close with every jarring footfall. Reaching the top of the flights, he puffs out in relief, wandering onward. Passing through the halls in padding and hush, the boy eyes every door with longing. Just like every other time.

He just wants to know, to see, to open these doors just for a peek. Would they still be locked, like the times before? Or, is one of them open for him? There is only one way to know for sure.

But, should he? Shouldn't he trust his mother's -Doctor Gorgon's- word? Would it upset her if he nosed about without regard to her given affirmations? Crona exhales a conflicted growl, stopping his hand from reaching for a doorknob.

He will go to the room, will sleep, and ultimately spend his idle time waiting. To hear of Ragnarok, see that girl... for comprehension. Everything. The teen will bide his time obediently because Crona is nothing but what the doctor makes of him and has nothing but what she provides. He is her whim, work, tool, puppet, experiment... He is Doctor Medusa Gorgon's son.

Small strides take him to the metal cart splayed with an array of cold soup, oddly colored puree and most likely, warm water. Crona walks past it, into the brightly lit bathroom. Clean marble and white hard plastic gleam beneath the ever-blazing beams, showcasing all the white. A blank canvas sorely in lack of all color. Barren, sparkling in all it's antiseptic glory.

The pink-haired teen closes the door, shedding his day-dirtied wear and grabs a towel from the closet. Needing to cleanse himself, clear out his thoughts, to scrub away his issues, and forget, for just a moment, that he is not and will never be normal. That he lives only for a scalpel and microscope; to be poked, prodded, stuck and sliced.

The boy thirsts to dismiss the fact that his heart pushes viscous ink through his veins and that he may never see his brother again... Or, unless until Doctor Gorgon deems fit. In a daze, he steps into the rubber-lined shower, pulling the frosted curtain and flipping the cool metal faucet to the highest setting. Crona doesn't flinch at the sudden burst of arctic rain, nor does he hiss at the scalding spray as it heats. Pale blues shut, he's just too preoccupied.

Because in this moment, he can pretend. The pinkette can imagine that Ragnarok is picking trashy electronic books to read, grumbling about Crona using all of the hot water 'like a chick,' even though neither of them really know that information.

As the water beats at his flesh, stinging, burning him in sheets of sterilizing wash, he can envision himself walking into daylight, amongst people, into the grey-scale lined city or through that vibrant park to feel grass with his fingertips and observe how such colorful contraptions he's seen are actually used.

In this instant, he is a normal boy. The water glides down heat-flushed skin as he works the astringent soap across his face and body. Derma tightens as lather slides from his limbs, making him feel slick and squeaky. Crona stands there, beneath the shower-head, forearms resting against the wall cushioning his forehead as the rain hammers along his back and his mind relishes these day-dreams.

The water will run cold soon and with it, frigid truth will flood. But right now, he can pretend. It's all he has.

~O~O~O~

"This is very special to me, you know?" Purring into his ear, the tip of Medusa's tongue slowly traces the indent of Franken's scar as his hands run down her sides, her faint gasp like a cool breeze on the sensitive tissue, humming with warmth.

"Is it, now?" Huskily the man chuckles, raising a brow as he catches her lips when they draw close, taking the bottom between his teeth. He sucks lightly on the flushed, pillowy cushion as she pulls away nodding. Eyes so bright behind pleasure-drunk heavy lids in this dim room, her skin's like heated silk in spite of the chill surrounding them, her hair perfectly twisted although she was just writhing beneath him moments ago.

"Don't you remember?" Playful breath tickles his lips in her askance.

"Of course, I do," Catching her gaze, an amused smirk rips across his features, "my dearest sister."

"Tell me." Medusa whispers into his ear, heating it with every word, her plush maw ghosting across the lobe down tender skin at the crook of his neck, "I want to hear it all from your filthy little incestuous mouth." Biting, sucking at his hot flesh, he groans, leaning into her. Taut arms encircle her, pulling her closer, pressing every feminine curve to every bit of him. Just to feel her... it's intoxicating. Franken doesn't want to talk, especially not with what magic she's weaving with her mouth.

"Why?" Her ministrations leave him struggling to find voice, his arms slacken, submitting to Medusa's will. Dainty fingers trail fiery passes from chest to his thighs, blood is pumping so quick, his mind is fogging, heady with her touch, her lips.

"Because," Medusa speaks softly, following the path made by her hands with open-mouthed kisses, slipping through his embrace easily, "I like knowing you would do anything for me, pet. So, tell me our story."

"As you wish." He manages between pants and moans as she licks the taut scars at his lower stomach. She'll keep going if he does. Stein doesn't want her to stop.

His mind leaves him as his body prattles on in strangled moans and throaty croaks, unable to think past the slick heat encompassing his length as the tension, such delicious frustration, builds once more.

O.O.O

_"So, he's gone again?"_

_"She is, too."_

_"I don't understand why you two care so much. It's not like this is anything new." Arachne's silver-lined ebony orbs narrow at them on the steps as she strides past, head high and lips pursed. _

_"I'm going out, you two be sure not to die or anything stupid like that. I'd hate to have to pretend to be upset." Long, shapely legs carry the young adult through the spacious abode with only the clack of heels to break the silence. Medusa grins at this before she lifts her ear awaiting the creak and click of the doors._

_"Well, it seems we are clear and free to continue some of our work." Franken speaks hushly against her temple, jagged, chopped locks tickle his chin as she nods._

_"Though, to manipulate the human body, we are in dire need to learn it intimately. There is only so much that outdated textbooks can provide us. Wouldn't you agree?"_

_Pale lithe fingers push his frames up the bridge of his nose and he tilts his head, lips tugging upwards despite his restraint. "I would agree, Meddy, but you see, our prime candidate just left for the night to follow in mommy's footprints." _

_"Ah, well, it's a good thing I took this then, isn't it?" The girl undoes the first few buttons on her shirt, revealing creamy, ivory skin. Dragging teasing fingertips along her chest, dusty jade orbs take in her movements, high in anticipation, driven to it's peak by hormones raging through this young teen. Braids swaying above her shoulders, the blonde pauses, grinning at a choked growl that grates from the boy. Finally, reaching into her lacy black brassiere, she pulls from it a small vile of crimson fluid. It sloshes thickly as the tube runs along her flesh._

_"...And she didn't even notice?" Cocking a platinum brow, Franken allows an amused smirk to shine in all of it's glory. Chuckling, the fair-maned male shakes his head. "Someone's getting sneakier.~" _

_"But tell me, how exactly is that going to help with our... studies?" Clearing his throat of the sing-song that lightened it, he shoots the girl a look etched with confusion. _

_"Aww, but my dear brother, the mystery is only part of the fun!" Faking a whine, the golden-orbed teen pouts pitifully as she shakes the tube's contents in his face, those grey-green eyes following the liquid in almost a trance. "You wouldn't want to ruin the fun, now would you?"_

_"Certainly not. At least tell me... Has our lovely harlot of an elder sister gained us anything interesting to manipulate?"_

_"You'll just have to wait and see, now won't you?" Her velvety tongue flicks out, moistening her upper lip before she nips the bottom sending the boy a wink. "But, I will say that I have some side experiments going that counts on her... extracurricular activities."_

_"You tease."_

_"You don't know the half of it, dearest."_

_o.o.o_

_"So, you're saying that there's no way we can use Arachne?" Worrying the inside of his cheek, he looks around the clean little makeshift lab they created together just over two years ago; beakers and vials, tubes and flasks, alembics bubble softly as electrical currents and small flames work through the various concoctions. All of this work, painstakingly crafted and forged with their own hands, stormed with the combination of their intelligence; it will all be for nothing if there is not a subject to study. One that won't be missed, wouldn't mind scarring and fear side effects._

_"No, I've told you, we need live tissue. To study the density of bone, elasticity of muscle, the movement of blood, networks of nerves... It's critical that we are able to track the progress of our serum. I can only do so much with hypothesis and theorems, Franken." Medusa's bright amber eyes dull, shutting momentarily as she rubs her temples. _

_"It should work, we've done all we can with her laundry-list of ailments. I'm almost positive it will work and your studies are coming along nicely... Everything is falling right into place... except for this. She would never agree, she doesn't even know..." Sighing, she refocuses on him. It's alarming. The girl looks so resigned, defeated._

_No. This is not what they've spent years planning! Something as huge, life-altering as this should not be forsaken! He can't stand for it! Won't allow it! All of the animals they've experimented on, the ones that have died, sacrificed to dissection pinpointing the roots of their problems, petri dishes borning bacillus only to be stripped, reversing its properties to create it's synthetic counterweight, the countless hours staring down the barrel of a microscope noting differences in platelet patterns until the boy's eyes couldn't adjust to anything but tunnel-vision and floaters... NO! It can't just be ruined, not when they've come so far, not when everything they have ever wanted is within reach. NO!_

_"I'll do it." Medusa blinks at his steady resolve, Franken's chiseled unwavering features, his hard eyes alight behind rounded flashing lenses. Her heart speeds, she bites her lip and smiles at him before reaching into her coat pocket._

_"Very good, my pet." He doesn't think twice about the name when one warm hand lifts to palm his cheek, her long fingers gently pushing white capsules into his mouth. She moves in, nuzzling his throat with the bridge of her nose, her pliable lips leave a scalding trail in their wake._

_He swallows out of reflex. Mind fogging with a blissful obscurity, senses filling with antiseptics as they erode along their journey, and that heated scent of womanly musk that is pure... her. The medicine works it's way through his system, dissolving almost instantly, sending fire through his veins to match the blaze her touch raises upon his flesh. In this moment she is all that he sees, feels, thinks and breathes. Her words are the only ones that make sense, his world is her, and Medusa Gorgon is his law. Being around this girl feels... amazing. _

_The platinum haired boy can't make head nor tail of much else, but does he really need to? The body doesn't lie. He wants this, to be servile to the one who brings this out of him. He chuckles because the lick of medicinal flames tickle and laughs harder because he can't control it. Silver flashes in the bright lights above him, yet he doesn't recall how he got to this table. But, does it matter? She's smiling, pleased that he is at her mercy. That's what he wants, right?_

_Yes._

_The blade bites into his flesh skillfully and it doesn't hurt! Oh, it doesn't hurt. The drug drunk teen feels a little disappointed at this. Franken wanted to feel her cut her way inside of him, touching each part so very intimately... like no one has ever done before. He wants the pain as a reminder. Despite the slight dissatisfaction, he smiles below as she grins so largely it aches. _

_He's temporarily craven, obedient, putty to be bent at her will. And with help, he will stay that way. Impossibly, her simper grows further, matching the long slice now decorating the subject's scalp. Only a few more inches to make room, only a few tools left to use, mere hours before she can claim her true prize... and give Franken his._

O.O.O

"Anngghhh!" Stein moans loudly as his abdomen tightens, body locks at the overpowering wave of raw pleasure coursing through him, igniting every nerve ending in sweltering cool and over-sensitized urgency. Half-lidded gold watches him from below, his every gasp and pant glazes them further in lust, possession, mirth.

Her tongue curls around the head of his member as her lips tighten, massaging him with every rapid bob of her head. Medusa's nails dig into his hips, keeping his thrusts at bay as she works to bring him to the blinding brink.

Unable to draw a full breath, his chest heaves, leaving him nearly whimpering with need. He's about to explode. Every droplet of sweat that drips down his chest, every pass of that wet velvet, every pull, suck, scratch, brings fireworks to the back of his lids.

His muscles are twitching, contracting. He's not even sure if he's even breathing any more. So close, he's so close to falling off that steep edge only to plummet straight into absolute ecstasy.

Smirking with one final lick, she pulls from him, he pops from her mouth and his throat squeaks a strangled frustrated cry. That blissful precipice retreats, as he's pulled down the cliff, the freefall directly into promised pleasure becomes nothing but a fading unfulfilled memory. The braided woman laughs airily at his distress before wiping at her mouth with a thumb, coming to a stand.

"Nnt-nmm... Where do pets belong, dear Franken?" She coos as her nails rake along overheated skin, pushing him from his seat, taking it for her own. The man's panting. Can he even speak right now, beyond the mounted tension, more than choppy grunts?

"On the floor." Manages Stein, between hyper breaths. He knows the rules, they've played this game for years. It's always the same. Ever-addicting, always exciting.

"Mm-hm." Drawling the sounds, her head falls back as his hot, rough hands travel the length of her calves and upward. He parts her knees with his chin, swollen lips plant feather-light kisses as his tongue dares to paint her inner thighs in torrid lines.

"Good boy~."

Medusa comes first, in all facets. A lesson, law that has been drilled from the very beginning. Oh, she can be cruel... But, her kindnesses outweigh it by far. He laps at her sweet slick folds, tasting her as if to memorize every bit of the woman, suckling at her in pulses. Her husky cries send Franken on a sensual high, he growls into her.

No, he could never tire of her. She's his drug, so beyond addictive... it's maddening.

~O~O~O~

Restless sleep reigned supreme through the night and Maka is surely paying the price this morning. She must have passed that fence ten times along her walk, just trying to get her blood flowing and the exhaustion to fade. But, there was nothing between the slats aside from rocks and plants each pass, from beneath starlit sky until the warm cotton candy sunrise painting the heavens, currently. No one. Those blue eyes are void from the property, the ones to blame for her lack of sleep.

Hanging a right, the girl trudges into town with an undead tread, passing through the normal parting crowd with burning gazes that don't even phase her. Legs like lead, her orbs throb with the need to close but she keeps on, pushing herself to her energetic limit.

Because it would be useless to even try. Every time her mind would lull, falling steadily into the abyss, she would think 'Hey, why was that person looking at me like that? Do I know him or her? Why isn't he or she afraid of me? Why isn't he or she disgusted by me? Why are those sky-like eyes always looking at me? ...They were pretty, weren't they?' In short, her brain can pretty much fuck off.

A bell jingles as her palm forces the sun-heated glass barrier open. Immediately, Maka is assaulted with the warm, rich aroma of sweeteners and chocolate and the smell that is purely unique to the elixir of life itself: coffee.

It takes her a moment before she realizes that she's just been standing in the middle of the store, sniffing the air with a dreamy smile, a steady string of drool slathering down to decorate it. Wiping her embarrassment with a thumb, the worn out blonde walks over placing herself in queue with a grunt, eye twitching at the stares and whispers. Especially when she finds herself at the front of the line.

It's not that she's not ecstatic that she has a fast-track for liquid alertness, no, she's fucking thrilled. But the cashier, he is sweating as he takes her in. Is he gonna puke or something? Maka sniffs herself in confusion. Nope, she still retains a lovely fresh daisy scent.

"You going to gawk, or take my damn order?" Growling at the boy, she taps out her impatience upon counter top. The sandy-haired kid eyes the spot in barely contained panic, she grits her teeth.

"H-how can we at Deathbucks help you today, miss?"

"Iced venti, hextuple, whole milk, white chocolate mocha." Grinding the order through clenched teeth, the girl is seething, annoyed that the cashier is still watching her fingers with those anxious granite orbs, and not ringing her up.

"You got that?" Brent, as his name tag reads, calls behind him to the petite barrista working at the bar. The girl nods, her strawberry blonde pony bobbing with the antic as she grabs a clear cup, marking it quickly with a rather pungent sharpie. Shuffling uncomfortably, the cashier lets off a horribly fake cheer.

"Congratulations! You're our fiftieth customer of the morning!" An awkward celebratory fist pump from the pitchy, crackling teen violates airspace.

"And?" Maka raises a brow, emphatically unamused by Brent's antics.

"Your order is FREE! Haveagoodday! Next please!" The wheat-haired boy flashes smile that makes him look like he's nauseous behind a trembling thumbs-up, abruptly trying to dismiss the blonde girl, he attempts to wave the next customer up.

Oh... Everything clicks, painfully clear. Maka doesn't move away quite yet as she bites her lips and shuts her eyes a moment, pushing down the intent to rip off his face. She reopens them when sated in retaliatory zen, staring down the boy. She blinks. A nasty grin curls tight lips as her hands begin furiously, aimlessly wiping at the counter, tracing over every available surface before she leans in and pats the boy on the chest.

"OH! THANK YOU SO MUCH!" With emphasis on every syllable, she breathes all over the counter and in Brent's bony, dickwad, ignorant face before heading to the hand-off plane with a grumble. Of course that would happen.

Though, she cracks a real smile, laughing a bit to herself as the brunette boy pulls out some lysol, spraying the surfaces frantically, mindlessly turning the canister on himself, he squirts his eyes and open mouth in the process. Serves him right. Maka genuinely hopes Brent enjoys the bitter, sour, lemony-fresh taste of idiocy. If only a majority of Death City would have the same fate. Is that too much to ask for? Yeah? Okay.

Sighing, she grabs the cool cup when it's slid to her and peels a straw she's been unmindfully twirling like a baton artist, thrusting the tubal plastic through fluffy whipped cream and the clamorously protesting ice. Gulping down the bitter-sweet liquid, she ambles across terracotta tiles and out the jingling door.

Six shots of espresso and over-sugared syrup should be enough to power Maka's walk back to the house, she hopes at least.

An abandoned foundation and walls where an escape from the park, judgement and those eyes can be found. Where she may finally be able to get some sleep, amongst the dust and atop a tiny worn mattress. Maybe... That much espresso may have been a bit of an overkill.

Still, heavy shuffling steps and gurgling sips lead Maka through her route, beneath a now brilliantly blue sky, the golden sun spilling through the cityscape as the pig-tailed girl passes looming grey buildings and silent reproachful stares, across shining, cacophonous, traffic laden roads and to the head of her street.

She stops still.

People crowd the sidewalks, packed and messily flailing, all the way down the road's length on either side, shouts and chatter polluting the air. There is no way she could sleep through this shit, whatever the hell is going on. Turning on her heel, she chucks the empty cup with clattering ice into the stop sign's rusty resident trash bin. Back into town she goes, for the moment at least.

Absently the teen rubs her stomach as it gurgles, her legs pumping quicker with every step, taking her around a corner and back onto the path to town. Maybe it's time to eat something other than granola and candy? A dry chuckle escapes her caffeine viscid gorge. With how things have been, maybe she'll be able to eat for free, too. Why the hell hadn't she done this sooner?

~O~O~O~

The air is colder than any time before, shivering beneath the thin layer of his robe he turns to warm the other side of his body against the coarse fabric of his cot. Crona's drowsy eyes open fleetingly as he groans at the frigid, unkind movements before he closes them again. Only to do a double take. It makes sense now; the temperature change, the unease. Doctor Gorgon's cool gaze holds, observing his form with stern concentration.

The silence stabs at his nerves, tingles race along his spine like icy spikes digging in, biting at him, putting the groggy teen on edge. Even with all this skittish energy, it's an unspoken rule; never show her fear, never disrespect Medusa with his unworthy glance. Eyes are like windows to the soul. One look and she would be able to see him for all the things he'd like to keep hidden. It would break the rules. It would most likely break _him_. One small peek could show him all the disappointment that his existence causes this woman. His mother, the only other in his life... the only, currently. A pang grips at the pinkette's heart, so hollow with the raven-haired boy's absence, it hurts. He swallows the ache, vision out of focus, thinking back to a less solitary time, he hums on a sigh.

When the braided doctor finally starts to speak, Crona almost screams at the suddenness of her steady tone, just barely containing both voice and jumpy limbs.

"I have a favor to ask of you." The way her line of sight is threatening frostbite, she isn't really asking anything. It's an order, to decline is not an option. Failure, disappointment... fear... is not an option.

Steeling himself to raise up, he lifts sky blue pools to meet with those of arctic sun. The boy's voice comes out thick and gritty, as if he hadn't spoken his entire life. "Y-Yes, Dr. Medusa?"

~O~O~O~

Hungry, pissed off, a caffeine headache squeezing at her brain and pure exhaustion leading her, mindlessly the blonde plops down at a bench, eyes clenched shut. Cars provide her with momentary relief of the heat beating relentlessly from above. Maka sighs, sliding all the way across the miserably hot wood, laying, sweltering. She sees nothing beyond the red veil and veins of her lids.

This uncomfortable bench is in full view of any passers-by of the city, but they won't near her, won't touch her. They don't want anything that she has. These things, money, everything she has acquired... It's all useless to them.

Vile.

Why does she even bother to hide behind walls? Behind that gate and between the roots of that sturdy tree. This town is her damn bed and she is safer than most. Others have that chance, the danger of robbery, rape, senseless beatings. She can't even get that much. Not like she's begging for any of that, but it would be nice to feel like she's normal. To have that fear, experience that sensation of 'fight or flight' instead of wallowing, drowning in this... nothingness. Groaning, she turns to situate herself more comfortably, waiting bus passengers be damned.

As the sun's suffocating rays beat down along her tan stretched limbs, she finds herself drifting, swaying and falling into a red-tinged blackness.

Images swarm her fuzz-filled brain. Those blue eyes that haunted her so fervently in her waking hours keeping her from her dreams now follow her through her unconsciousness. Maka would scoff at this, but she is incapable.

A being of nothing but the air itself, she nears these orbs. They are giant, deep pools of sky as she floats ever-closer, so close that her invisible fingers could graze their glassy surface, and she tries just that, though Maka can't make out her own movements.

Upon impact, the image breaks, particles of what once was evaporate into swirls of white and blue plumes that fade upon rise, a strange maniacal laughter rings in her ears. So distant, yet it echoes, shaking this space like a ghostly avalanche.

It silences, cut off abruptly as if time came to a stop. Everything stills in this void, suspended and snuffed, as if there was an unseen light that's stolen, it goes black. Deeper than pitch, with no discernible floors, ceiling or walls, the girl is lost within her own mind, the decaying depth of her very soul.

Despite the heat that her physical body feels somewhere in the pit of subconscious function, she is submerged in a damnable chill. It cuts to the core, absently she rubs at her arms. Shocked with the feel of herself, Maka gasps, looking down. Even though the entirety of this place is dark she sees her now-tangible body, skin glowing from within, just enough to break the calignosity.

The blonde is cold, naked, and absolutely certain that she's dreaming, so she just shrugs and raises her sights again. But, that void has vanished, in it's place suddenly, she's back at the park. Though the grass is so much more vibrantly green than she recalls, flowers of neon sprout along the rustling blades as she walks into the wind, deeper into the colors amidst canned chirps from memory playing in loop.

More laughter rings out, far less alarming than the first, this trill coming from children. The girl's breath catches, painful and burning in her chest. These kids, they... They're her friends. Well, used to be.

Her own small frame stands out among the others, the sun highlighting the tot's actions as she kneels in the sugary grains building a sandcastle, lively and smiling broadly at the others around her.

A single small, chubby hand breaks from it's granule construct to grab that of the red-eyed child, looking solemnly outward, beyond the sandbox toward his parents and their older son. Watching as they actively ignore him. His messy tousled, snowy head whips over at little Maka, taking in her happy face and sparkling emerald eyes, the stout little digits laid so strongly, yet delicately over his own. He smiles. As if that little girl could sense his troubles and her touch was a balm to soothe them.

He turns his head, hiding the trail of a single tear that fell from the little girl, and he giggles thickly poking a careful hole in her hard-worked, yet sloppy spire. Stubby pigtails whip around, in one swift motion the tot clocks the boy on the head with a little red plastic shovel, green eyes narrowed and flaxen brow cocked.

A choked laugh bursts from her constricted throat, swiftly Maka covers it ashamed of it's sound. That little girl didn't see, but the teen saw it all. She was there for Soul when no one else knew a thing, always there to knock him out of his unfair reality. She saw it all, and somehow the temperature dropped along with herself. On her knees, she squeezes her eyes shut, willing it all to go away. It's all so meaningless. It's just a dream... There's no point on dwelling on anything...everything. Just go away...

Go away!

Her orbs open to the blinding, blazing sun above. She shifts to block the damned light from boiling her eyes from the sockets with a hiss. Weight shifting, something tumbles to the ground, crinkling and crumpling with impact upon the hard concrete.

"...The hell?" Grumbling, the blonde eyes the bag suspiciously, snatching up the bright sack with a sleep-tingly hand.

"Huh." Her hard gaze softens as she peers into it, growing more confused by the second. The girl's heart aches, tears prickle hotly at her ducts.

"...A sandwich?" Both nonplussed and touched, the question wisps out in an breezed chuckle, though it only leaves her feeling more hollow. Pulling it from the bag, she inspects it quickly for any signs of foul play, nodding approval the whole time. One last wristy rotation brings the rich, savory smelling thing to gaping gullet, and she devours it with speed enough to put any Saiyan to shame. But as her focus shifts, she looks around, no longer tasting the meat, nor the flaky, butter toasted bread. No... the only thing she notices is that she is alone... Still alone. Whoever did this pitied her enough to throw their lunch to her, but did not care whether or not she appreciated it, didn't care to stick around, didn't care to wake her nor be in her presence.

The sandwich fills her stomach, but she is left feeling emptier than before. But, shouldn't she feel happy? Thrilled that at least someone noticed her? Be content that her stomach acid isn't working to devour herself from the inside out, that her body has energy to keep going, without having to stoop to stealing? Shouldn't she feel some sort of damned positive emotion right now?!

Crumpling the waxed wrapper and bag into a tight ball with one fist, she squeezes the items far past necessity while other hand idly sifts through her purse, it's dark inner walls wafting cool fabric against her busy skin as each digit clicks through the bag's contents, dimmed dull sage staring blindly out at the street before her.

Nimble fingers grasp at their target absently, sliding the thin sliver across the calloused tip of her thumb. It stings between minute throbs and, just for a moment, all is right. Because, it banished the numbing. Each little accentuated pulse a heat to rival the growing cold. Maka loosens her grip on the disassembled razor's blade, allowing it to fall back into the depths of the satchel, taking her air in deep, even nasal breaths. She closes her eyes, letting the feeling sink further, the fleeting serenity soothe her.

This momentary peace, she knows she's going to need it. Just as much as she doesn't want to, she needs to go back to that hospital, has to see that sickening face of the man that wrought this hell upon her. Her lips twitch a bit, caught between a twisted grin and deep frown. The teen wants to watch as that drunkard, garnet-tressed womanizer suffers his fate; wired, tubed and ultimately defenseless, dying a slow and hopefully agonizing death. That bastard sent her family into ruin... He's not her fucking father, he's nothing but a nuisance, a tricky one that fooled her all throughout her younger years. Maka will observe his every mechanically-aided breath until he crashes. And, maybe, just maybe, she will laugh as he burns.

~O~O~O~

If there is anything to be made blindingly clear, Crona has recognized it: watching is far different than participation. Leaving the safety of his fenced-in sanctuary, he clings to various walls, having catapulted into the bustle of scratchy cement paving and people coming and going, passing by way too close with their waving limbs and rustling clothes. A pant leg bristles against the silken robe at his thigh and he cries out, unable to escaped the unwanted touch. This garners odd looks, but he doesn't care to really notice, his poor nerves can't take much more, this quaking body isn't conditioned for such spacious vulnerability. He skits along further, taking note of openings in the varied crowd, between skirts, dresses, pants and shorts, dirty, feely hands and pokey elbows, but always scurrying back to buildings, letting their surfaces calm him, anchoring him in this sea of creatures he knows both too much and nothing about.

Though, all the same, being so near the lives he's observed, he has never felt so alone. No one is paying him much mind, it's as if these people are disconnected, a fact both relieving and wholly disheartening. His narrow shoulders tense as he pulls further into himself, one hand sweatily gripping a crumpled, beige bag, the other tightly clutching the scrawled directions and his other arm. Crona's feet scrape against rugged concrete with every shallow, rapid step, alert eyes darting from street signs to the musky hot bodies in discomfort and anxiety.

He ducks into and navigates the streets like a meek little mouse in an ever-moving live maze, the cheese looking increasingly less likely an outcome, exertion wearing on his swift-moving body, the boy pauses, holding up mid-tread, the surface he's using is small, ridged, not really all that comfortable, but he's just trying to rest-out the burning of his overworked muscles and the restrictive, stabbing stitch at his ribs. Through choppy rose locks, his doubled-over form takes in the home with weary cerulean eyes between ragged breath, only really able to focus on one thing at a time until his lungs calm and respiring comes easily. Sighing, he laughs out once in disbelief.

He has no idea how he managed to get here, leaning against a tree as his lungs still tingle from their burn in protest. It's all a blur. The people, the signs, stores and numbers, all swirling about in his mind, covered in a soft layer of fog, just barely out of comprehension. The teen could almost say that being drugged provided more clarity than his exposure out here. Nothing is memorable other than his blaring nervous apprehension. Too much stimuli? Most likely... And he didn't like it one bit.

A small trill fills his ears as two children run from the home and wait by a tan vehicle on the drive. They chatter amongst themselves as a lithe, worn, braid-bearing woman locks the door and makes her way to the kids, smiling with what looks like all the energy she possesses. But it's warm, and the look she gives the talking tots is an adoring one. It fills Crona with a sense of sadness masked by a twinge in his chest. Never once had Ragnarok or he ever received such a look.

Ragnarok.

Absently he watches through the windshield as the boys are buckled into their seats. Their bright smiles and rosy cheeks standing out from dark complexions, the mother rolls her eyes at something said pulling herself from the opened door, closing it as she chuckles to herself. Their familial camaraderie, the robed boy is filled with a sense of envy that naggles, wriggling in his chest like some sort of monster fighting it's way through, wanting to take it all, claim it as his own, if only to fill the space left gaping within him because his own has been taken. Though, he did, at one point, have such a thing at least.

Crona sighs seeing the woman settle into the drivers seat, tinkering with something in the center. Finally, the braided brunette secures a safety belt over her torso, and running her hands along the tan hide wheel, cranks on SUV, pulling out of the paved drive and drives away. His nostalgia-hazed orbs follow the vehicle, sun reflecting from it's shiny surface as it turns, becoming one with the traffic flow, light brown in a current of multicolored shells pulsing through the grim grey-scale city.

Somehow, the package the boy is carrying feels lighter than it had. Doctor Gorgon has given him this much, an opportunity to achieve some sort of small greatness, a chance to help out this family, these children. To provide them with a life free of the tribulations his mother has worked to rid for nearly her entire existence. The pinkette's sore, naked feet move quickly as he crosses the scorching murky, pebbled street, a smile tugging his lips hard. He's able to do something for others, personally, not just with his data, not with his statistics... With his own two hands and the will in his limbs he is able to strengthen these people and prove to Medusa that he is not a failure, that the timid boy can be of use to her.

Pulling a key from the bag, he twists the warm fluted metal in the shimmering brass lock. The click is so loud, booming much like the heart in his chest and blood in his ears. Digits fidgeting, brows knitted in concentration, he tries to focus beyond this buzzing frenzy, nipping at his lower lip to counterpoise the jitters. Pushing through the red-trimmed door, the teen enters the dimmed home, readying his tools, he pulls a slick glass tube from the rustling sack and heads toward the kitchen.

The dwelling is simple enough. Clean black carpet caresses his tired feet as he ambles through it's shag and modern living space, angular sofas and interestingly shaped entertainment pieces litter his tunnel vision, determined to fulfill his duty quickly, breathing in the crisp, cool air, he moves onto chilled tile and passes a lived-in dining room, complete with hand-drawn placemats and dinosaur toys, into the kitchen. That envious twinge grows stronger, a pang in his chest that makes breathing difficult, but he continues further, pulling open the sleek black refrigerator. The contents lining it's door clink and clank together with the sudden motion, Crona jerks at the sound drawing a sharp breath, the hand clutching the brown crinkled bag presses to his chest as he embarrassedly urges the furiously pumping organ beneath his palm to slow.

Uncapping the vial, he sets to work, cupping the small red, rubbery cork with his thumb and hand, using his knuckles and fingers to open containers, sprinkling the powder into edibles and liquids of all consistencies and shades. Being very thorough in his work to cover everything completely, mixing juices and soups until the substance is fully dissolved, with firm concentrated purpose and a lip trapped between straight teeth he will help this family, make those boys and their parents strong so that they may endure a long and healthy life together. Warm and cozy, much like this home in which he is nothing but a heroic intruder.

His purpose is to help mankind, much like his brother. He will not fail them.

Crona thinks of those small boys, their childish joy that seems to have glowed from the inside out, all of that bubbling life belting out in shrieking giggles as he finds his way through this stylish yet quaint darkened house, back out into an environment as foreign as the warmth he just left. A sad smile paints his face as he remembers his own brother: their comfortable companionship and ridiculous one-sided debates. His face grows hot as the tears begin to fall, minute choking sobs chopping his breath in spurts, but pays neither mind as he weaves through the crowded, clamorous streets adrift and addled once more.

Ragnarok is fine. He is strong, just like that family will be.  
Because, Doctor Gorgon said so... She has no reason to lie. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people. Other real-life stuff and references to other Anime/manga things... I don't own those either... The Harry Potter series and it's characters belong to J.K. Rowling, iocaine powder from Princess Bride(Rob Reiner and William Goldman)[[only used because I felt paranoid searching for 'deadly poisons that are practically untraceable' on the internet...]] and 'Every Me and Every You' is Placebo's. M'Kay?

**Chapter 4:**

A stream of pale yellow light pours into the tight hall as Soul opens the door to his apartment. It slides back to shadowy darkness as the barrier clicks shut behind the albino who steps in slowly, stripping off his zippered gold and black patched jacket, leaving the layer on the floor in his wake. Heading over, with nothing but the need to lounge on the blocky pillowed couch in the center of the dimmed room, he stumbles few times, mostly over forgotten bagatelle. It's burgundy buttoned stitching whines mutely under his weight as he plops himself down on the sofa's surface, cushions molding around his frame in a memorized hug, he sinks deeply into it's soft crevice, but doesn't care much as he rubs his palms over foggy, aching eyes and runs fingers through his downy, snow mane, a resigned sigh painting the still air.

Soul's mind is tired of running through the same scenario. If the whipping wind and a ride through the city's streets couldn't wipe the thoughts from his mind, the boy isn't too sure what will... If anything at all. The past is already written and his rights to speak have long passed. It won't change no matter how much he thinks about what more he should have done, the lingering 'what if's, he never would have thought of that shit on the fly anyway.

o.o.o

_"My money is good, just like everyone else's! You can't be fucking serious!" Raising volume, pissed and desperate from the hushed rasps that the words used to be, a female voice cuts through the busy eatery, causing some to stop mid-bite in order to listen in with sly sideways glances and perked ears._

_This girl wants the hostess' attention. Well, she got it, along with that of curious auditory assiduity curtained beneath achromic strands. Taking sweet time chewing, he listens in, fiddling with his napkin and wiping stray juices from his rounded face. _

_"Miss, you need to leave-"_

_"I don't need to do a god damn thing! I just want to eat!" _

_The albino tilts his head and leans slightly from the red pleather-upholstered booth to peer over at the commotion with squinted blood-tinted gaze, chrome-like trim makes it hard to focus as it reflects the obnoxiously luminous pin-lights from the low popcorn ceiling above, but he strains to look anyway. They widen immediately as he takes in the two, arguing back and forth. One in the wrong and the other defending her position, though to define which role is which is a fruitless task._

_One thing is for sure, there is no mistaking it. That is Maka up there, trying desperately just to get a it been this hard for her the whole time? Is this just one of many struggles? Soul swallows the soggy mess in his mouth, harder than necessary, he sputters for air as his uncomfortably full gullet seizes mercilessly, trying to force the sustanence down and air in, or out... out mostly. Grabbing his stained crumpled napkin, he brings a balled fist to hush the outburst, finally finding some relief with one wet, heavy hack._

_His chest aches looking on through struggle-watered eyes, but it isn't from the lump's descent... It's from so much more. Seeing this girl brings back so many memories, so much good that it physically pains Soul to reminisce. Because the boy left her. _

_His affections could never amount to the pressure placed on him from everyone else. He loves her, fucking loves the chick but... she's got things that he can't contract. He has a reputation to uphold, goals to achieve... Only just having gained some recognition from his own parents, brother, with the acceptance of his pre-screening performance application to the University of Rochester and formal invitation for a campus audition, Soul just... He can't... He just can't risk it._

_His chest constricts further and he fights the wince with a sharp bite to his inner cheek. The albino's heart screams for the girl's presence, beats only for that next glimpse of pig-tailed blonde that may or may not be her, but his skin crawls at the all of the possibilities and his mind nearly shuts down with all the moral, ethical, and emotional conflicts. Every fiber of his staunch body is at combat, the snow-tressed teen's squeam is caught dead-center this treacherous tug-of-war, threatening to be torn beyond repair._

_She had goals, too. Had succesfully acheived scholarship and acceptance into many universities even before the middle of senior year came about. Maka is the one that helped him study for his tests, pushed the boy to apply for more than one musically centralized college, pressed 'record' for his pre-screen tapes... Tasting the twang of copper and earth, he releases the bloodied meat of his cheek, gritting pointed ivories, they grind against each other with the pressure._

_"Then I suggest you go somewhere else. We have the right to refuse services to those that may hinder business and you just so happen to fit right into that category." The flustered hostess tucks some loose, messy chestnut hair behind her ear as she stiffly makes her way to the entrance, expectantly holding open the door. "If you don't leave, I will have to call the police and have you removed by force." _

_Maka tries to bite back the giggles, but they rasp rudely past pressed lips and she gives in, throwing her head back, laughter bouncing off the walls filling the whole of the small diner. It's almost like she's having a seizure, the girl is shaking so violently from it. When she finally stops, wiping the wet from her eyes, sighing an oddly airy sound, a tight smile stretches across her reddened anyone else, she probably looks like a maniac. Anyone else would think she wanted that reaction, the way every one cowers from her... Like fear is her weapon, power._

_But he isn't just anyone. He is Soul Evans and he is -used to be?- her best friend. Knowing the blonde so fluently, can see the pain behind her smile and give an accurate guess of about how much weight she has lost since boy can tell how her loneliness is draining her of herself._

_And, it hurts. His stomach flips, it's difficult to breathe._

_"I see..." Her steps are heavy and slow as she scans the establishment once more, gaping food-filled maws, startled faces gleaming beneath the lights and chrome, bright against dark furnishings. Maka licks her dry lips, dragging a nasally inhale, she crosses the threshold. "Well, I wouldn't want to ruin anybody's meal, now would I?" Barely audible is her utterance as she retreats, defeated, that smile still firmly in place decorating her hair-shadowed, down-turned face. _

_Air hisses fiercely as the paned door swings to a close, he finds himself staring at it almost in shock, but caught someplace between sentimentality and remorse, almost wishing she would return and contritely allayed by her extradition. Gulping down the sickness with himself, Soul flags down his waiter, placing one last order to go and asking for the bill, he raps nail-bitten tips harshly against the table's top in his impatience. _

_When the curly, fire-headed male returns, placing the plastic dish and paper in front of the albino, he shuts crimson orbs, groaning out his momentary reprieve. He just can't be here anymore._

_The hostess huffs in relief, still marginally vexed by the prior encounter, as he saunters up to the register to pay. Soul's order comes quickly and he couldn't be more glad. He has no words for the fake cheer the brunette is laying on him past the mumbled 'thanks' when she hands the teen his change and sack of to-go food._

_Bag in hand, he pushes through that warm glass paneled door, into the scorching atmosphere, miserably unforgotten by the sun. Buildings dress the city in useless shadow, painting the sky black as each tower cuts through the light briefly. Noise assaults him immediately, from car horns to rowdy teenagers as he wanders the pavement aimless and silent, yet ever upholding his composure. Though, no sooner did he remind himself of this, it slipped. _

_Because of her. Always because of her._

_She lay so delicately draped over the slats of heated, paint-chipped bus-bench, hair like spun gold spilling through the cracks, nearly emaciated, her curves jut in points as she shifts slightly in her sleep. A whimper squeaks from barely parted lips, whispering against the purse beneath her cheek, and his chest constricts at the forlorn sound, a dull ache burrowing deep and spreading fast. The boy rubs at his sternum with his free hand in vain, though he knows nothing can erase this feeling. Sanguine orbs drop from the sight, ashamed._

_In his hand, the white bag blinds his diverted stare, reflecting the sunlight into a punishing beam. Like a stupid fucking beacon noting a brilliant peace-offering. Soul half-asses a smirk, more a habitual reward for thinking than actual emotion. Without realizing it, he's already past the bench, hands snug in his pockets and the bag is out of his hand. As if it took mental auto-pilot to pull off the drop! Shrugging, the snowy haired boy rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck as he sighs. Smooth strides carry the teen further and he turns down the next narrow, brick-built alley to retrieve his precious motored bike._

o.o.o

His little gift wasn't enough. Even if he could do that for her at every meal, every day for the rest of his life, it would still not be enough. That familiar gripping pain gnaws at him again, igniting his chest with such frigid, intense purchase. Truth is... he's too afraid to do much else for Maka, no matter how much it hurts, how much it sucks... No matter how much he thinks about doing more.

Fear.

He's fucking afraid of the girl he loves. Scared... Soul Evans is scared shitless and that's a secret he just might take to the grave. His conflicted heart can't take much more.

~O~O~O~

The halls are every bit as empty as they always were. Thick rubber soles clodding quickly across the shining stratified floor, she follows the invisible path lain before her, through this barren antiseptic wasteland, not even bothering with the dark rectangular signs posted on the wall. Maka has been here so many times, it's almost impossible for her to lose her way even in all of this death-palace's sinuous glory. Besides, how much more lost can she really get?

Sharp turns and stretched halls of the same boring polished, chalky alabaster walls and contrasting closed doors eventually lead the pig-tailed teen to her destination. Smiling behind the itchy paper mask, she invariably presses the chilled brushed metal latch, her first steps pushing into the brisk, mechanically clamorous room. Perpetual unflattering light seems to greet the girl with it's paling effect upon her skin, through it's loutish consistency the blonde no longer takes notice as emerald scans floorward, head dipping unnecessarily under the frame as if it were some unspoken custom to this ritual.

"Pa-" Her simper falters, feet planting into the vinyl, toes curling against the soles of her shoes.

"Ah, hello! Maka Albarn, I presume?" The man greets blindly from over his shoulder as he pulls the linens back to Spirit's chest before he busies himself checking the man's leads and IV's. He turns around, closing the plastic curtains behind him.

Maka just stares at the man. Her face is blank but her eyes are taking great care to burn into this intruder, from his mussed platinum hair to that grizzly scar. Her stomach is turning, his presence makes her sick. But, she stands her ground showing no weakness, showing him that he is not welcome here. That she wants nothing to do with the prick that had an active roll in why she's standing here.

He should already know who the hell she is. He helped ruin her life.

"Okie dokie..." He gives a nod of his head, unperturbed by her continence. "Not in a talkative mood. Not a problem." His coat swishes around his legs as long strides carry him past her to the sanitizer on the wall, a hand whimsically waving away the previous notion, as if trying to clear the air of it's stifling stagnant enmity. "Maybe next time, huh?" He smiles at her, has the gall to cheerily grin at her behind that damned paper mask his eyes fucking twinkle beyond spectacles that she fights down the urge to rip from his face. Watching that infuriating doctor exit, his whistles taunt her as he fades away into the hall.

Turning back to the matter at hand, slitted emerald regards that pallid man. A pathetic waste, pale and useless soaking up medication in vain. Dropping her bag, her footsteps booming in this otherwise empty room to fall on deaf ears. The teen's teeth grit as her lips twitch upwards, further and further, her mask covering such a smiling snarl. She's enthusiastically resolute, knowing what needs to be done, how to do it. With steady fingers, Maka grips the slick curtains, peeling back the barrier between them. Her breath heavy but her mind set, she leans in close, hot breath stifling in it's protective trap against her own skin with every monotone word.

"Good bye, Papa." Her shoe skillfully presses down, tugging both plugs from the wall.

The ventilator gives one more pump as the power dies out, the monitor no longer beeps as she replaces the clear drape, sauntering over to the bathroom door and plucking her bag from the floor along the way. The blonde doesn't look back, because there is no going back... Like her life before that man's execrable dissension, foreseeing the eventual ruination of epoch. Breathing deeply, the paper clings to her nostrils as she frocibly steadies her lungs. Spirit deserves this, doesn't he? The girl expels the oxygen slowly, every step forward seems to come at a snail's pace. She needs to get away for a little bit, if only in the next room. But, it feels like its taking forever, something naggling at her, as if she's swimming through a current back to that dying man and all the girl wants is to leave him to his own waste. Her feet unwillingly hesitate before they progress... Why? She wants this, so bad... right?

Right. With a relieved sigh, the teen reaches a familiar barrier. A door to her cleansing, salvation... reflection. A physical interpretation of what she is capable of, what is being given: time to let her logic flow void of her own emotions, and she might as well take advantage of the shower while she waits. With her father dead, no longer an incompetent expenditure Maka won't have to grace that disgusting asshole of a doctor with a 'next time.' He and Spirit can go to Hell. Is that coming from her logical or emotional thoughts? Both, maybe.

The door clicks shut, blinding lights assault her and yet she looks on. Her reflection greets her, watching her with cold, misted jade as her digits rip the paper from her face to reveal a friendlier sight. Momma did always say 'smiles make everyone look their best.'

Numbly, Maka kicks off her sneakers and shifts the clothes from her limbs, letting them pool by her naked feet. The world around her dims even with undeniable luminescence beating down upon her, though those eyes, her eyes, seemingly pierces through her in all of their vibrant dismality, delving deep into a part of her she would rather stay hidden from every one. Especially herself. Brows furrowing, the blonde's lids slam shut. Squeezing so tightly that the muscles of her face ache. She turns from the mirror. She doesn't ever look into the mirror... There is the reason. She hates what she sees. Hates herself for what she is, what she isn't. Despises what she can't do, even more so for what she is capable of.

A careful flick of the wrist brings falls of heated water from the pipes. A simple step brings her into the freedom of the scalding rain, washing away whatever evidence of her tears that may or may not surface.

The girl lets the water burn it's way down her flesh as she slides down the rubberized wall to sit in the cascade, watching as the lines of irritated pink spread, connecting, enveloping her skin in an angry blaze of red.

Her abused fingertips dance at the shower's floor, fidgeting, trying desperately to fend off the need of retribution. The twitch fails miserably, her hand glides out of the stall, dampening the floor and her bag as she searches for her tool of penance, gripping its thin body and pulling it into the steam with metal fogs around her digits, stray droplets travel its short length as her gaze deadens on the sharp edge.

Lifting her arm, she drags the blade across the skin at the crook of her elbow, savoring it's nomadic sting as the wound stretches on, spreading with her derma's elasticity. Crimson gathers in the center of the cavern, spilling over with the shower's spray. It brings with it no release this time, beautiful as the sanguine ballet is as it dances round the trail of rain.

Maka presses in again, below the first bloodied basin, letting the ditch surpass the previous in length. Her torn skin swells between the two slices as her life's essence spills over, painting the drain in a swirling pink. It's still not enough. This will never be enough. Nothing could give her what she deserves, not when it's so hard to tell what that is, exactly.

The cuts become more shallow the more frantic she gets, scratching at an itch that is too deep to reach, relief unattainable. Her breath is heavy in her hollowing chest. It hurts with how fast she's breathing, how rapid her heart beats against her ribs.

No longer does the bathroom smell of antibacterial soap and bleach; steam reminiscent of copper and soil fills her senses. Her nerves scream at her as the heated spray further aggravates tortured flesh and finally she gives a throaty resigned chuckle, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the beating water as the metal falls from her grasp.

~O~O~O~

Rich golden rays cast the cityscape horizon in a shadowy silhouette, leaving the busy metropolis a dull buzz compared to it's expansive entirety. Jittery hands against the grain, the wooden gate whines with his entry as Crona shuffles into the yard. Prickling at the soles of his tired feet, the rocks scrape against each other with his weighty tread. Sighing, he ambles quickly to the doors, eager to return to solitude, to catch his breath as he relishes the pride of finishing his given task.

Cool air blasts his hot skin before he scrambles inside, his feet seemingly melting with pleasant abandon against the cold stone. Ribs still thrumming with a fulfilled pain from his adrenalized high, he smiles broadly making his way through the silent house.

Details do not matter, exactly what he prepared those people for, what advances he bestowed upon them with that simple powder. He helped them, with his own two hands no less. A secret hero, of sorts. The way those two boys giggled with each other sticks into his mind, his cheeks hurt with how large he's smiling. He's so happy, but that twinge in his heart is still present because of Ragnarok's absence.

Scaling the stairs, he feels nothing but that pleasant hum of joy. No fear, the height doesn't bother him. Because, for the first time in his entire life he, with his own abilities and freedom, has done something productive. Not the data of his vitals, nor the science behind his internal structure. Not charts nor tests regarding or pertaining to his body... Crona did this. And, damn it if he was not going to enjoy this feeling.

Being able to provide for a family... He feels like he could do anything, that anything is possible for his own. With that thought in mind and his room's door quickly approaching, he laughs a little to himself, because it's going to be a good night full of good the cool handle, he presses onward into his stark room, suspiciously eyeing the silvery food cart. Unfortunately, the food will probably still suck, though.

~O~O~O~

"God damn it stupid mother fucking piece of slimy shits..." Hoarse angry mumbles pass Maka's lips as she works to secure a folded rectangular pad of thin toilet paper with a tooth-de-fingered glove. Though, with every pull at the latex, her makeshift gauze falls away leaving her grisly oozing artwork exposed.

The teen hadn't meant to go so far. She wasn't thinking, at least not coherently. And now, it is time for damage control. As much as she dislikes the people around her... There are kids in the places she frequents most and being the kick-start to nightmares is not something that sounds too appealing. Not with the way everyone already looks at her.

Delicately, she uses her teeth to lift the tightly bound rubber, fingers working quickly to hide her castigation with an even blanket of cheap, rough bathroom tissue. Hissing inwardly after releasing the latex, it snaps at her flesh, irritating the ridges of every slice and itching like wormy asshole as the toilet (sand)paper shifts. But, behind the verbal response her lips tug into a grin.

Maka lets out a satisfied puff, wandering from the bathroom, she stops at the door, leaning against the chilled wood to look upon the cold cadaver. Ashen waxy flesh peeks from dull auburn locks, those sickly lashes sticking to sunken cheeks... Never to open again.

She feels nothing in this moment, she's been cold for so long, so very empty on the inside as she's waited for things to get better... For things to go back to the way they were, before all of this. Optimism and this cold corpse ate away at everything she was. Maka is every bit the shell that this burdensome body is. But, there is still that pull, dragging her back to this man's side, vestige of the girl's sneakers sluggish, demurring.

"Tch." Sucking at her teeth, she bends to the floor, plucking the plugs from the floor and replacing them into their socket before straightening up and leaving his side once more, without a second glance. The monitor buzzes loudly as the ventilator pumps into dead lungs, a shrinking sound as Maka frees herself from Spirit's confines, leaving it all behind.

Her legs swing mechanically, treading the 'No Hope' wing of its labyrinthine halls: where the patients are laying, awaiting death and the staff are merely a clean-up crew. Don't they know? They can get rid of that man's body, but no one can clean up the mess he's left behind.

~O~O~O~

_"I don't know if I can do this any more." Crona inhales shakily, his hands knotted at his sides, knuckles bound so harshly that they are white as he fights through the nausea bloating his esophagus and the sharp pain tearing at him from deep inside. His eyes are so soggy with salt that rings of rash has begun to form. Peering through sheets of unshed tears, he turns his head to hazily look upon Ragnarok, rose brows knitted painfully as he hopes silently that the other boy doesn't feel what he does._

_Teeth grit, grinding behind tight lips, his countenance is unwavering... But the way his eyes darken tells a different story. One that sends pangs beyond physical to grip Crona's heart._

_"What other choice do we really have, guy? Shit's standard procedure, you know this." Ragnarok takes in a nasally breath closing his eyes as he leans deeper into his cot. "You know it will be okay. Shit, you can have my 'killers if it will quit your bitchin'." His tone is gravelly, a little too stony. He's forcing himself to be stronger. Trying to hold them both together with the confidence of his gestures. And he succeeds, somewhat, like every other time. _

_Crona tries to smile behind the shooting pains gripping his abdomen, a quiet torture, but a sob forces it's way out, choking him up and breaking the barrier allowing the tears to trail._

_"Hmmhm hm hm hmhm hmm hmm hmhm hm hmmhmm hm hm hmm hm hmm hm hmmhm hmm... My body's broken, yours is bent. Carve your name into my arm, instead of stressed I lie here charmed. 'Cause there's nothing else to do... Every me and every you." Ragnarok's timbre is gravelly yet soft to Crona's ears, and just for a moment, it helps. For that short moment, he is able to focus on the beat of his brother's hums and the words of a song he was sure Ragnarok was struggling to remember himself. _

~O~O~O~

Everywhere.

He's everywhere she looks. That damn smile, that fucking laugh... with her mom and holding her hand. Can't she just have some damn peace?! Can't the girl walk through the city without having to look at Spirit. It's draining, her heart tugs at every active image, wishing to go back to that time, to live it out more fully, to treasure it, and yet she's left with nothing more than a fading mirage and this damned numbness that makes it hard to breathe. Maka stops at a crosswalk, holding the pole for support as she squeezes her eyes shut. Her forehead falls to meet the metal, it's cool to the touch as she huffs through her burning throat. Her chest aches, she clenches her teeth.

It won't stop, it should have ended with his last breath, but IT WON'T FUCKING STOP! They ridicule her, ever-looping behind shut lids flowing from her ducts in scalding, salted trickles that burn her moist, heated cheeks. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it! Didn't she get rid of him? Didn't she just escape this? She should never have to be around him again. She's free, right? It's infuriating, and she takes it out on the beam with her head in rapid taps between pissed-off sobs.

She's not sad, why would she be upset for doing the world a favor? He ruined more than he built, she reaped what he's sown. No, she'd never regret this. His death brings her closure, not grief. Right? Still, these memories are here, surrounding the girl, even stronger as she professes the man's death, his smiling face, his laugh, the feel of his strong arms holding her tight as she cries about a boo-boo on her knee.

Banishing the tears from her cheeks roughly, she growls, dragging in a shuddering breath, focusing through these wayward memories before forcing her legs to move across the empty street and onto an equally empty sidewalk. Briefly sparing a glance toward that fence, she wonders if the mystery person can see her. If those eyes can see how absolutely fucked up she really is. Maybe... Maybe those baby-blues should take a big gander and leave her the fuck alone, just like everyone else... Just like this fucked up imagery of what used to be should.

Sighing, her pace slows, fingers flop from each bar at her side as she passes. They chill the tips, matching the way she feels inside. Cold; so very frigid. It's a hollow pain that resonates, nearly debilitating. But, by sheer will she carries on, through the creaking gate and onto the unnaturally maintained lawn as it swishes with every stride and crunches with each step.

Maka passes the tree, her peripherals too clogged with sights and sounds that should have stayed buried in the past. Grinding her molars, her face is a war of muscles, tugging airs of pain and half-cocked grins, salt painting her face despite her vain attempt to wipe the trails.

Kicking at sugary dirt at the foot of the abandoned swing, she grabs at the chain with a weak hand, barely turning enough to seat herself before the onslaught of violent sobs wrack her body in silence. Maka doesn't want to hear herself, it's bad enough that she's letting this get to her. Though, it couldn't be helped. He just forces himself in, wrecking her thoughts, her life, like he always has.

"Fucking bastard." Maka chokes out, sniffling. "God damn it... God fucking damn it..." Creaking, the chains sway gently, faded emerald watches her feet trail ditches in the fine sand expunging them with every pass. It's hard to breathe, the air catches in her chest before it leaves her in sputters. But she stays transfixed, her shoes making a path that she can just as easily erase.

Her life is nothing like this sand. Every ugly thing carved into it's surface creates a bigger picture that can just be swept away within moments. Maka will always have these scars, she'll always have her experiences... She can't just erase them, can't just forget. She can never start off fresh and new. The sand is lucky.

Her free hand wipes absently at stray tears before gripping the other chain, her precious bag secured across her chest and upon her lap, she kicks. Back, forth, back, forth. Higher and higher until she is certain she can't push any further, and then...

The girl lets go.

In this moment, she can accept it all. All life's little nuances, because it was the design she was meant for... Whatever the hell that means. But she also realizes something else: yeah, she may not be easily cleansed like the sand. She's so much stronger.

The blonde has gone through all of this shit, standing tall no matter how many had turned their backs. She did not crumble... not completely anyway, she can't. It's impossible. This shell of a girl, it will take so much more to break her.

Her stomach feels weightless as she speeds through the air, grass quickly approaching, the laughter bubbling out in a childish reflex. Feet hitting the padded ground with a thud, she keeps going, propelled by the force.

She slows, the tree in sight and she lifts her face to the clear night sky. Dim stars twinkle as best they can among the streetlights lining the city. Maka inhales deeply, trying to catch her breath between giggles.

He's dead. And he damn sure isn't up there, or anywhere around. It's all in her head. Just in her head. Settling into her favorite spot, she slides into the nook between rough barked roots, a sigh escaping as her damp eyes flutter shut. Because, Spirit is no longer on the list of problems she has any more. That loose end has been tied and now, she has nothing but time to figure out how to tie off the rest.

She drifts into the darkness, spinning through a merry-go-round of memories. It teases her with innocent laughter lost for the rest of her lifetime. Her mother is unrecognizable, now strangers to each other. Raucous teenage friendships, so warm, sour as they start disappearing one by one, fading into the abyss until she is left shivering and alone. Her tears flow freely beneath shut lids as her subconscious wracks her with irrefutable truths, begrudgingly accepted.

~O~O~O~

Blinding, even behind closed orbs, the lights are first to assault his hazy senses. It's familiar, stinging clean stench, the roughness of his bed. Though, seldom is there ever any noise. Crona's first instinct is to bury his face into the scratchy fabric below him, to block out all unwanted sounds in a last-ditch attempt to grasp onto the remaining lull of unconsciousness. To block out the repetition of his daily life. But, he doesn't follow instinct. His life has changed so much in the past month and this sound fills him with ridiculous amounts of hope.

The tablet is streaming something, the pinkette isn't sure quite what, but is certain that he didn't touch it. Crystal peeks blurrily through long rose lashes, scanning the room for company... For Ragnarok. Hope builds further in his chest, so much that it burns. Furiously, his fists work to rid his eyes from remaining sleep film before his vision takes in that empty cot, then the open bathroom. No one.

"What the hell did you expect, a fucking party?" Exhaling slowly, he nods, because he agrees with that voice. What exactly was he expecting? Standing on drowsy limbs, Crona slumps over to the focus of commotion. It seems a video is reloading, getting ready to play again.

His heart stops as he reads the bold black headline at the top of a solemn male's face,  
"**RESPECTED COMMUNITY LEADER BIOGENETICIST AND FAMILY FOUND DEAD**" alongside a smiling family photo. That picture of a man happily embracing a familiar woman and their two kids. It stays at the upper right corner of the screen and Crona can't rip his eyes away as the forefront man begins to speak.

"... Colleagues say that they were worried that he had not shown up to work. It wasn't like him to take time off on the cusp of such a breakthrough. Concerned, his team leader showed to check up on him. Reports say that he found it strange that both vehicles were present but no one was answering so he placed a call to authorities for assistance." Crona's lips quiver and his eyes burn. He can still hear the giggles of those two boys from a few days ago echoing faintly as though it was still happening, his vision blurs and he works to breathe steadily.

"Coroner's toxicology reports have ruled out the possibility of drugs, poisons and fatal allergies, which has stunned the medical community, especially with the lack of evidence suggesting trauma to their bodies. But one thing is certain, their deaths were not natural. We mourn this loss here at DETH-TV, and in rememberance of Doctor Sidney Barrett, the children of Death City's community center, a place in which the late doctor volunteered many devoted hours, had this to say about the man that taught them more than just sports:" Leaving nothing but a solemn frown, the anchor fades and neat rows of tear-stained, splotched faces are hiding behind trembling, balled fists and each other. There is nothing but the silent, sobbing murmurs to torture the teen's own soul before a soggy teal set seem to peer directly at him, sucking the air straight from his lungs.

"Sid was," A shaking hand drags through the distraught teen's tousled flaxen locks, gripping it roughly, a pained expression marring his distraught face as he fights to regain strength in his cracking voice, " he was a good man." The blonde sputters for breath, a whine clearly lodged in his throat desperately trying to escape.

"He taught us how to use our bodies to their best ability, pointed out our qualities when some of us thought we had none." It's clear that he can't look into the camera anymore, his lids shut so fiercely and finally the boy lets his grief flow. It shines on his pinkened cheeks and Crona can't stand the sight, but he looks on, watching in shock, horror, guilt for what he may or may not have caused. Did he do something wrong, fail? This wasn't supposed to happen!

"Sid gave us hope, the one thing most of us come here for. The community center is a safe place, the only place some have. And he was like an older brother to me, and an actual foster father for a couple of kids-" The pinkette can hear the reporter mumble something to the boy, and once again those bloodshot blue-green eyes are staring at him, in horror, appalled, before a loud cry breaks free and the blonde boy is on the ground, hands to his face as his body is wracked in violent tremors. Distance between him and the reporter's microphone is great, but beyond the whistling static and the garbled sadness, Crona can decipher one last sentiment before the screen cuts back to the main anchor. "Not them, too! They... they were so young!"

"More on-" The glass surface goes black, but Crona is stuck, staring at the place where the family, the group of kids, that boy had been, a glimpse of a joyous moment trapped in time and great anguish due to loss and remembrance. His icy orbs stay stationary, but the room seems to be spinning. It's hard to breathe, to think, the air is so heavy, so cold.

He was supposed to help these people. Was supposed to do something heroic, to strengthen their lifespans. Just what the hell happened? Crona can't keep his eyes open. His skin is tingling with a heat running the course of his body while his lungs sting with every rapid arctic breath. Balance and gravity work against him, and the frozen stone is there to greet him as he falls. His head connects with a sickly thud as static colors swim in pulses in front of clenched eyes.

It hurts; his skull, heart, his stomach elaborately turns in violent knots. He's going to be sick. The pinkette can feel bile rising, eroding his esophagus along it's slow trail, the bitter acidic fumes sit in his throat as he fights to keep it down. He failed them, his mother, Ragnarok. Never has he ever done anything right. Never. And because of him, people suffer.

He did this. He killed those children, silenced their laughter, stole the opportunity for their parents to watch them grow up. He stomped out their happiness by simply being himself; a disgrace. There is no one else to blame. Doctor Gorgon has never led him astray, her medicines have always done as they were made to. He must have missed something, a critical step. Botched their chances because of omission.

This pain is searing, his chest aches, resounding in a sharp stabbing hollow. He is nothing without his brother to guide him; without his mother to give him directions step by step.

"No. No no no no..." His face burns in rivers, his neck aches with every ugly wet inhale. Why couldn't he just do this one thing? Why did they need to die? Why couldn't it be him instead.

"Such a pity, isn't it?"

Oh no. He can't face her, Crona can't look her in the eye right now... Not when he's messed up so bad. He sniffs, trying to calm enough to answer her should she need him to. He owes her for his shortcomings. He needs to make this blunder up to her.

"It's a shame to see how some blatantly disregard instructions." Medusa, frowns, gazing at the black screen with disgust. Crona hasn't raised his face, every word is like a twist to the metaphorical knife in his soul. He knows now. Crona saw the consequences of his stupidity. Gulping down fresh sobs, he remains floorward.

"It was so easy, too. All it took was trust, confidence in my abilities, in my agenda." Arms crossing her chest, she sucks on her teeth and sighs. "Oh well."

Crona's breath caught. He couldn't believe she would be so nonchalant about a mistake this big. It pained him more to hear her brush this away without scolding him, punishing him. Voice thick with his sorrow, he had to force it to work, had to do something.

"I'm sorry. I d-didn't-"

"What?" Confused, she quirks a flaxen brow at the broken boy at her feet. He snaps his slime-slick face at her amused chuckle. "What are you going on about?"

"I don't understand Doctor Gorgon, I thought I messed up?" One hand wipes at the liquids on his face as his brows furrow and head tilts.

"No, child! Lamentably, I expected this outcome... Though I had held out some hope that the fool would have listened to me." Slit gold meets wide blue, her sentence loses strength. "They should have taken the vaccines."

"What did I do?" Teeth grit, the boy doesn't know what is going on, but he's angry, hurts to his core, and those damn giggles echoing in his head make him want to die, the words barely audible rasp past a quivering snarl on exhale.

"You tested the loyalty of a partner." Medusa breaks eye contact as she turns, a few quick steps taking her to the door jamb. She stops, with only one thing left to offer as explanation. "Unfortunately, he failed me. It's nothing more than that, Crona."

Clacks of her heels echo through the sterile hall as Crona sits on his knees staring at the empty threshold in absolute bewildered abandon. What should he think? Feel? Those kids... He killed those kids... Those people for his mother, as a testament to loyalty. On both parts. He didn't fail her, but those that did... Those who disregarded her are dead. Just what the hell should he feel? Should he be proud of himself? Sick? Sad? Angry? Utterly confused? Because he can definitely do the latter.

"So the bitch offs people when she doesn't get her fucking way?! What kind of shit is this? Fucking psycho cunt!" The pinkette has to agree with that voice, somewhat. It's definitely not normal.

He snorts, the chuckles bubble out of him before he has a chance to stifle them so his hands fly up, trying to cover his mouth, but they only morph the sound. Normal! Ha! That's fucking ridiculous! He's never known normal! Never will! Why does he even keep that silly word in his vocabulary?

What is it? It certainly isn't killing people? It isn't watching people from behind a fence! It's not being cut open time and time again! No, ... Maybe it is? Crona laughs harder, letting himself fall so that his back is lined on the cool marble, a fist pounding with every hearty spasm.

~O~O~O~

Maka scratches at the latex binding her arm idly as she peeks from her squatted position behind a parked SUV. Her target's occupants are piling out of the room, pulling their bags behind them, wheels scraping across the pavement fading into the distance. She has to move quickly, housekeeping is making their rounds and she doesn't have much time to get there from her current stance.

She sets herself low, running between vehicles and keeping at least one between the eyes of the motel-maid and herself. The door is about an inch away from auto-locking her out, she sticks out her arm, fingers taking the brunt of the force of the gaudy burnt orange barrier, though the blonde stays quiet as she slips through the crack, sticking the 'do not disturb' sign on the handle for good measure.

Collapsing on the bed, she heaves a sigh at the cool air steadily pumping from the a/c. It's so much nicer than stale air. Much better than spending a whole day in the heat of the park. Much better than stalking the hospital for the elusive scar-faced dick. She hasn't been back there yet, but soon... soon she will figure out how to tie off that loose end. Maka hasn't been back to that house either, not wanting to strengthen the haunt of her memories she finds that hotels and motels of recently vacated rooms make for a nice quick shower and nap. It just takes too much moving, frankly it's already getting old.

She doesn't know why she did it this time. Well-rested and clean enough, maybe it was just boredom? Maka sighs, sitting up upon the crumpled sheets she digs in her purse for her water, twisting the cap to take a greedy gulp. Re-capping and stuffing it back in her bag, her gaze set on the mini-fridge, she saunters over. Before pulling the small door open, she squints an eye and crosses her fingers. Leftover restaurant food is hella good.

Along the seal, the tiny white appliance's door cracks. Her breath comes in short pants, holding the door only slightly opened Maka mouths a silent prayer for a good find before revealing the thing's contents. A lone styrofoam box, a can of generic cola and six miniature vodka bottles greet her misting sight. So beautiful!

Eagerly she grabs it all, plopping straight down on to the beaded carpetting, the bottles clink together in the bag, a forgotten treasure in the wake of the to-go box. Hands ripping the top open, her mouth salivating, she has to bite back a squeal of excitement. Those people forgot an untouched taco salad. It's condiments gleaming from little black cups, salsa, lime chip straws, extra fucking guacamole. A single tear runs the length of her cheek as she dumps it all into the crisp, devoted tortilla basket. How long has it been since she's had a taco, much less a taco salad?

Maka banishes the question from her mind with a shake of her head and a mounded chippy bite of taco-slop, crunchy chews behind the biggest pleasure-drenched smile. She fucking adores tacos.

Bite after chilly, delicious bite, the teen continues to demolish the food until all that is left is a tongue-cleaned styrofoam container and spit-damp plastic cups. Leaning back on the palms of her hands, she pats her stomach and puffs out a contented sigh. Her hand finds the lapsed soda, popping the tab with the skill of a toned forefinger, Maka takes a big sip of the icy syrup. She burps. Again and again, rolling from her innards on out until even she is surprised with herself. Eyes wide, she blinks, leaving the drink where it lay, grabbing her stuff as she eyes the gassy elixir. The girl stands, turning her back on the trash exiting in smooth stride, through the ugly threshold and back into sun-soaked city. With a clear head and a full stomach, she can face that park, those streets, the memories again. She's had her time to simmer, now it's time to figure this puzzle out.

~O~O~O~

He can't think, can not breathe in this sterile place. He's got to get out, he needs something to steal his mind away from these things he just simply can't change. With every heavy footfall, his soles stick to the hygienic residue. Each stride brings him deeper into the phosphorescent hall, closer to the rest of this house that he only recently discovered. The farther that he travels through these pseudo-foreign entryways, the less he feels like himself... Whoever it is that Medusa has created. Because Crona is not his own person.

Jarring step after jarring step, the flights of stairs are defeated in kaleidoscopic blur, unblinking crystal orbs, barely checking in as he follows a trained trail. Yet another thing he has done on his own to contrast with the rest of his life. He needs his brother, needs his gruff words, his rude, yet comforting thoughts. He needs to let this out, even if his brother would scoff... Even if the raven-haired boy would ignore the pinkette. He just needs his presence.

Medusa. What are her plans for them, everyone for that matter? Crona doesn't know, and normally that wouldn't cross his mind any more than just being a fleeting thought. But she took Ragnarok, had Crona kill those children, that entire family... That warm home filled with toys, happy photographs and drawings now sits empty... A crime scene. His crime,... His mother's crime.

Medusa Gorgon is everything he knows, law, right and wrong... But from the things he's educated himself with. E-books and the like... No matter who you are, murder is wrong. Why couldn't they live?

The teen's ducts tingle heatedly, though no tears escape. He's cried out, laughed out. Crona is empty. Sluggish hands grasp the handles, turning them, freeing him from this strange place that is his home to the wide expanse that he has been denied for so long. The boy needs something, anything really. What ever does not have to anything to do with this boxy place that smells of toxic antiseptic and ice.

Sunlight blasts his face, limbs, his skin loosens as does the pinkette's muscles, as if he is thawing with every motion. Stabbing at his nude feet does not bother him, the rocks whine with their dry grind beneath him. Crona barely hesitates before pushing himself through the wooden fence's gate, immersing himself into this strange world. A world that doesn't know him. A world that he doesn't know.

He knows what he needs, nude feet lead him to that place he's never been with the colors that stole the air from his lungs on that very first day out. He doesn't have permission... but does that even matter any more?

Crona knows he won't go too far, and Doctor Gorgon knows that as well. She's designed it as such, molded his life to revolve around that house as she now dangles his missing brother's whereabouts in his face. No, the pinkette will never leave her, because he will never leave Ragnarok behind. But what he will do is take a damn break. There's a story that he is particularly interested in, needs to see that next page.

The boy needs to see her. To cut out everything that is happening in his seemingly meaningless existence, to not think, just be. To see this fascinatingly solitary creature that has held his interest from the start. Stepping down from the concrete, he crosses the asphalt without a glance and, miraculously without issue, he reaches the other sidewalk turning to tread alongside those black bars lining neon hues and green. So much green.

~O~O~O~

_"Doctor Stein, you have a call holding on line three. Doctor Franken Stein, you have a call holding on line three."_

Stein looks to the ceiling as the feedback scratches, unhindered by the blinding spotlight upon him, he lets out the slightest of sighs before pulling his gloved hands from the gaping blue sheets covering a waxy open corpse. Glasses flashing with the turn of his head, the silvery-streaked man shrugs at the balcony of interns with a sheepish smile behind a stiff paper mask.

"What can I say? I'm quite the popular man!" Chuckling, he peels the blood-soaked rubber from his hands pulling a loose sheet to cover his work. "No peeking! I will continue in a few minutes. Don't go anywhere, we'll be getting into the juicy bits soon!"

Wiping at his brow, white-grey locks stick at his skin, his palm slides down his face to yank the mask to rest beneath his chin before he exits through the heavy metal doors. Grabbing the receiver, he pushes the blinking red button, trying to calm his breath from the excitement of moments ago.

"Stein here." His breathy tone heats the mouthpiece with a layer of fog as the doctor turns to lean against frigid wall.

"My, my... I must have caught you during demonstration, haven't I, pet?" From the other end, Medusa swivels her chair, crossing one long leg over the other. Finger twirling the end of her flaxen twist, idly.

"You know me too well, Meddy." Scratching at his cheek, he smirks a bit. "What's this about?"

"I wasn't sure if you'd heard or not, but we lost another set of hands." Exhaling slowly, she drops the silken strands to rub at her temple.

"The virus?" Pushing his frames up the bridge of his nose, Stein shifts.

"Not quite. Just listen, alright?"

"Okay." He nibbles at a tag of dry skin on his lip, thoroughly immersed in whatever reasoning Medusa is ready to give.

"I've had my suspicions about our partner for a while. His wife was against all medical immunizations and he held a reluctance to vaccinate to honor her wishes. He had distanced himself from our cause, started only making appearances to the meetings, leaving shortly after." Her brows furrow, eyes narrowing at the wall. "We gave him all the tools necessary to protect himself and his new family..."

Closing golden orbs, a disgusted scoff escapes parted lips. "I went to pay a visit to him at his lab and noticed stuffed in the biohazard bin a number of vials crushed beyond comprehension... Our vials, Franken." Opening her eyes once more, she stares at her black dress-hugged thigh, not really seeing. "I was hoping that they had taken it, but I wasn't sure."

"Medusa, just tell me what happened." Stein grips his fist, still gnawing at his lip.

"I had Crona test them." Medusa sighs once more, her timbre losing strength. "The iocaine powder... It kind of puts us in a bind, but in sagacity, we've just saved he and his family a slew of suffering. I-I just thought you should be informed. He was a friend of yours, after all."

"Yes, yes. Understood... And Meddy?" Freeing his lip, he nods once.

"Yes, pet?"

"You are absolutely right. Had Sid thought to heed our warnings, you would have never had to test their trust... Besides, that powder is fast-acting. They most definitely didn't suffer. If he had the option to choose, it would have been that way... That's just the type of man he was. It's only a shame that those boys weren't of a more fortunate grouping." Pausing, Stein let his sentiments sink in a moment. "I'll be over later, alright? My procedure is tonight, that always cheers you up." Smiling, he hangs the phone up, grabbing a pair of gloves from the box above and pushes through the hulking steel barrier.

"I'm back~!" Stein sings out, fingers separating the latex, he slips each digit in with precision and pulls up his mask. He's ready to begin again, to feel those soft organs surrounding his hands as sticky crimson paints him.

It's Spirit's payment to him, after all. He was goint to be inside this man anyway, but doing it in front of onlookers holds more appeal than privacy. He snickers, ripping the cover from the red-head's exposed viscera. Unheard by him, the students sitting in the balcony swallow the momentary relief of his absence with the uneasiness upon his return. 

Across town, Medusa sets her phone atop the glass surface of her desk, it's click loud in the otherwise barren room. He's right, she does love performing his procedure just as much as she loves it's effects. Who doesn't value expanding knowledge and utter obedience. Franken has always proven to be quite the entertaining side-project. Her lips purse, curling upward as the thought of preparations sets her body to motion.

~O~O~O~

Why is she reading yet another trashy romance? Just why does she feel the need to subject herself to this nonsense over and over again. Repetitive words depicting this grand euphoric feeling, a liar emotion. Is it habitual? Some sort of sordid inside joke that she's living? Meh. It doesn't really even matter much, does it?

She turns another page, absorbed in the corny poetry leaking from every cheesy line. Snorting, she grins, unable to deny that the literature is entertaining in it's own right... In the fact that it is nothing like real life, the mechanics of relationships aren't that cut and dry and ... sappy. Maka shudders, swallowing down the vomit. Maybe it's a good thing that this love crap is so widely misrepresented. There would be no profit, no marketing if people knew the truth.

And then, there would be no books to pore through and make fun of, while secretly pining for the fake muscle-hunks. That, in itself, would be utterly tragic. It has been quite some time since she's had any sort of physical contact, and sadly enough this is the only way she can get her fill. Feeling the hundredth chill that hour, she peeks from behind the cover. This feeling is so familiar, and it's been happening constantly. There is no one else around, it's frustrating, but she shakes it off, skimming over the little words to recover her place.

A breeze blows through, rustling the jade leaves above tousling the ones that have fallen to roll through the crispy green stalks on the ground. The paper in her hands begin to flit, threatening to flip her page. Maka holds strong, though her rebellious hair splays itself against her face with the gust. The girl shakes her head to rid herself of the annoyance, spitting out stray bits that found their way to her mouth. Satisfied that the pesky air has calmed down and contemplating a haircut, she starts over again, scanning to find that one keyword to unlock the paragraph she has not read yet. But damn it if that sensation doesn't arise once more.

She wants to brush it off, the blonde'll probably look up to see nothing, yet again. She'll probably get stuck re-reading the fucking page bis. The teen'll get aggravated and shut the damn thing, foregoing the juicy smut inside. And that is just a damn crime. So, no. Maka decides that she will just keep reading, let the goosebumps crawl along her skin, she doesn't care!

Face flushing scarlet clear to her ears, she presses on in her defiance. The scenes like a blessedly dirty movie playing out in full as everything else fades around her. It's not even text any more.

"¡Oh, no, poco cautiva! Lo que tenemos aquí?" The pig-tailed blonde is staring at this beautiful fictional man as he pulls his hair back into a wavy jet ponytail, slung across glistening, tanned brawn. Those smoldering granite eyes ignite sparks upon her limbs, livening them, as he lowers himself to the rippling sericeous sheets. The girl's breath is heavy upon kiss-plump lips as his stalwart body crawls up to her from the foot of the bed, like a strong beast stalking oh-so-willing prey.

"Usted ha sido atrapado robando." Glistening muscles ripple with every loose grip upon the bedding, it moans in sweet protest at the man's solid weight as he nears, barely touching her scorching skin with his own. Oh god, does she want him closer, this heat is unbearable, but all she wants is to drown in his, to feel that silky jet hair between her fingers as she eagerly runs them through each lock and feels every part that bronze skin beneath her itching palms, but her small wrists are trapped in soft bindings and she is a prisoner in this bed, an enamored captive to this beautiful Spaniard with with his thick, curling accent and scent of musk and spices.

" Y yo estoy aquí para castigar tu en el más maravilloso de formas." His head tilts ever so slightly, that wrangled mane tickling the swell of her breast as small whiskers at his chin scratch her hot flesh while he teases her with a kiss he doesn't plan on giving her just yet. More, she craves more, yet he's just stoking the fire, playing with the delicious lick of the flames. She's praying desperately that he wishes to burn.

"Bellísima mujer, robado mi corazón lo exige." A slick, skilled tongue laves at the shell of the girl's ear as he sinks, dragging straight teeth against her sensitized neck. Whispering along her fevered skin, his breath is sweltering, yet cool, the sensation is heady, every movement he makes is dizzying in the most delectable of ways. The blonde can't think straight, everything is smeared artfully in an erotic fog that she fights to gasp in. Though, she doesn't want to think, the girl wants to feel, to submit to it's hypnotic dance as he travels back down, pliable lips like feathers tickling, sending her nerves into an electric frenzy, circling her navel only to stop, tasting the little dip before dragging his tongue lazily downward in a wet trail that increases that frantic need. It pulses within, an exquisite frustration that builds like a tightly wound coil waiting to be sprung aloose. Planting tortuously slow open-mouthed kisses from hip to hip, he finally-

The grass crunches beside Maka, breaking her focus and she jolts out of reflex.

"WHAT THE SHIT!" The blonde tosses the novel, scrambling clumsily to get away from the source of her startle, tumbling over the large root and landing on her flushed face.

"AHH!" The mass of black screeches, jumping back only to land on what seems to be it's ass with a thud. Crona clutches his chest, his heart beats bruises against his ribs.

Breathlessly recovering, Maka raises up from the lawn, palms to the poking blades, knees digging into the rock-like dirt, to find out just what the fuck just happened, but when her emerald orbs catch those haunting baby blues, she finds herself at a loss of words.

She blinks.

He blinks.

The boy is just staring. He can't tear away, can't move from his uncomfortable sprawl, even though the grass is like scratchy blades of rustling discomfort lodged in places he'd rather not mention. The girl with pigtails and bright yet dull eyes is looking straight at him. He is in the presence of his very own mysterious heroine and the flabbergasted pinkette is utterly speechless.

She blinks.

He blinks.

What should he say? Should he apologize? Say 'hi'? Introduce himself? All are good for starters, though none surface. His throat is so tight that he's sure all that will pass is a squeak. Not only is he a bit starstruck, the boy has never needed to speak with anyone other than Doctor Gorgon and Ragnarok, so... would it be proper custom to say any of the things spinning around in his head? Oh God, the anticipation is too much! Crona's heart won't slow and now breathing is becoming more difficult!

She blinks.

He didn't mean for her to see him, but couldn't stop himself. The moment he caught sight of her, he was frozen, slowly, powerlessly being pulled into her presence by some unknown force. Why does this have to be so difficult? What should he do?!

"Well if this gets any more awkward, you'll probably end up creaming your manties before you even hear her voice, champ." That Ragnarok-like entity grunts through Crona's mind, he squeaks at the message's suddenness, much to his chagrin.

Maka's brow quirks, seeing this person so flustered, she tilts her head, messy pigtails tumble past her shoulder as the blonde watches the pinkette battle himself internally. It's too quiet and it definitely doesn't look like the kid will be saying anything, any time soon. His little yelp having broken the initial awe of the moment, it left her feeling... weird. She gives him another look for good measure before clearing her throat and crawling slowly to retrieve her book. She doesn't make any sudden motions, the teen doesn't want to spook the boy.

Not that she's afraid of him, but she doesn't want to cause him a heart attack. Guy looks like he's having a conniption fit, baring his teeth and gripping his own arm like he's about to yank it off and beat himself with it. His eyes keep darting all over the place, so she takes that moment to get settled back in her spot. The girl's not moving, by all rights, she was here first.

Crona huffs, trying to control his inner monologues and cautiously lets go of his elbow in order to at least straighten up. The blonde's eyes are still on him, he can feel it. Dare he look at her once more? Shaking his head, he banishes the thought.

"Uhh..." She tries, anything to stop this uncomfortable silence. "Hi."

Crona bites his lip as crystal orbs peek from beneath pink bangs and nods. Yeah, that didn't help clear the toxic oddness wafting from all around. The girl blinks and then chuckles nervously, her fingers flipping through flimsy paper pages of the book. She doesn't really know what else to do.

"Hi." His voice is so painfully quiet, she would have missed it had she not been so heavily involved in this painful awkwardness.

One thing is certain: he isn't trying to get away and he's actually trying to converse. Something she hasn't had happen outside of the hospital in so long. It's actually refreshing, at face value... Minus the staring and gawky blundering. She feels herself smiling at this floundering male. He's making some sort of attempt, Maka isn't quite sure what he's trying to accomplish, but she doesn't much mind his presence. His artless bungling is kind of cute, in a way. Or maybe not, she's not entirely sure. It has been a while since she's had willing contact with anyone. The situation in itself is kind of novel.

"You know..." Breaking her gaze and opening her book, she tries to think of something, anything to say to cut the tension. It's too much and she's dying to know just what the hell is going on. "It's rude to sneak up on people." Humming, she locates the scene, making sure to fold the page before setting the literature safely to the side... Unfinished business and whatnot. "What exactly were were you doing? You nearly scared the piss out of me!"

"Gah! I'm sorry!" Staking every bit of willpower he owns, he lifts his chin to meet her stare. Sincerity widened, glassy blue makes her heart skip a beat. Those same eyes still hold no judgement, unlike the others in this town. Maka raises her brow, fending off the want to smirk as she narrows her eyes playfully.

"That doesn't really answer my question, now does it?"

"Oh God, I don't really know what was going on! Please, don't be mad at me. I really didn't mean to scare you... It just sort of happened." Crona takes in a large breath, his shoulders slump finally being able to relax by getting some of that out.

"I see..." Tapping her finger to her chin, Maka purses her lips. "And you aren't afraid to be seen with me?"

"No, why would I be?" His face twists in confusion, the answer on his lips immediate.

"Hmm... No reason. Are you new around here, or something?" She had to ask, unable to reason really why she would feel disappointed and astonished at the same time. Maka did know that she wanted to keep talking. "You aren't like everyone else."

"Well, I am sort-"

"Where are your shoes?!" Upon taking this person in, she couldn't help but interrupt. This city can be a dangerous place: glass, needles, asphalt hot enough to melt the soles of footwear... What in the hell is this dude doing barefoot?

"I don't really... own any..." Abashed, the pinkette looks away, bending at the knee desperately trying to tuck his toes beneath the hem of his robe, the black fabric not giving any leeway.

"No fucking way." Gaping, she gives him another up and down, fully assessing him. His cheeks grow darker at her perusal. It's an odd color between bronze and red, she thinks. Almost looks black, but that doesn't make any sense so she shakes that off only to notice he's not wearing any pants... or a proper shirt for that matter.

Maybe he is actually a she? It would suck to have pegged him wrong.

"Are you like... a hippie or something? Is it a religious preference? Is that a dress, or a bathrobe... A smock maybe? Are you a nude model? ... You know what? Forget all that shit." Waving a hand dismissively, the other digs in her bag, pulling out a pair of plain black flip-flops. They are thin, mostly just to be used as shower shoes, but for some reason, she can't bear to think of him walking around without something. Maka chucks the footwear gently in his direction. "They're a little big on me, so you can have 'em. Put these on."

Crona blinks at them before his eyes widen at her. Snickering a little at him, she rotates her wrist in an impatient gesture. But she's not irritated, that much is clear. He just reminded her of Dobby receiving a sock. Those big innocent eyes, it was too much damned cute! Cheeks tingling with heat, her gaze fixes to the side as she unnecessarily shifts the book around, moving it in a circles and clearing her throat minutely before looking back up.

Just when she thought she had her fill, this boy (she's pretty sure, at least. Not that it really matters) has put the flip-flops on the wrong feet, an adorable scowl complete with pooched lip is adorning his face. She blinks before continuing to observe his plight until finally he switches the shoes, puffing in relief. Maka is fighting the goofy grin, her lips twitching stupidly.

"Feel better?" Her amusement noticeably lightens her timbre, making her voice both airy and thick as her brows tick upward.

He sighs, taking steps in place to test the foot coverings in satisfied contentment before looking back to her, ready to thank her and enjoy the comfort of these semi-cushy things on his feet. The boy gasps. Her orbs are even brighter, reflecting the sun as her smile lines them in subtle joy. It's beautiful and he finds that his voice won't work no matter how much his mouth opens and closes.

Crona can't see her and speak at the same time. Hiding the color of his cheeks, he mutters his gratitude, pressing through the difficulty to not sound like a preteen going through puberty. She giggles at the boy/girl... this person. He is just too precious, she can't help it. And, he's still here. Still trying to speak, wearing something she may or may not have worn. Maka's heart warms a bit. For once, the girl doesn't feel so frigid. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people. I also do not stake claim to any universities or any other real life stuff that I may miss adding to this disclaimer.

**Chapter 5:**

"So you're tellin' me you have only one week to bask in my glory? Damn, Tsubaki! Can't you explain to your folks the utter urgency of this predicament?" Good-naturedly he barks, having stepped outside of the diner to take the call, he runs a tan hand through rough blue mane, checking his reflection in it's large window.

"No really I-" A small babble crackles from the phone's earpiece, aptly ignored.

"I mean, c'mon! You need a week to ween, baby! My mere physique is enslaving and my genteel personality is one that demands a form of worship. I'm sure you can squeeze out a later return date!" Flexing, he grins, checking his grill before sending himself a wink.

"Black Star-" Oh how the teen's name sounds on those delicate Japanese lips, even across oceans he can imagine the look of unbridled wonderment lighting up those dark pools of brown envy, reflecting nothing but he!

"It's settled! I'll plan the biggest 'Welcome Back to America' party you've ever seen and-"

"But I've got-" She's trying to be coy with her sheer wants and desires. She'll never admit it, but Black Star knows it already. She can't hide anything from big daddy.

"-then we'll disappear, so that you may have me all to yourself. I know how you can be a little selfish,-" A bronzed hand swipes at the sky's image in the glass.

"-classes and I really-"AH! She thirsts to learn! That could be arranged, after all, the blue-haired boy is but a man of the people. One superbly magnificent man.

"-but I have no problem making your every dream into a reality. I'll grant you this one wish, because you've had to do without ever since grad night. I'm a-" Black Star's finger juts into the air, his tongue darts out to moisten chapped lips between words.

"-need to be-" Oh, she 'needs', alright. It's natural, he just has that effect on people.

"-kind soul, so I will appease you this once! Well, this has been a nice chat. Gotta go, my food just arrived! I'll be at the airport to get you, no worries, 'kay?" Ending the call with the press of a button, his boots hit heavy against the pavement in rapid succession. Food beckoning him to consume and friends demanding his presence at the table.

Who is he to refuse his closest companions the honor of such grandeur majesty? He isn't. Black Star is both an adonis and a gift that keeps on giving. They are devoted, he can't let them down! Straight teeth displayed proudly and an arm to the door's support, he pushes inside. The handle clamors against the wall from the force, but he keeps on, head high and sight set. Quaint steel adornments reflect his parading image, through garnet cushion and cherry wood. Chatter settles as patrons at the tables and booths around turn curiously to watch him pass, the boy puffs out his chest that much more, they want a show, and one, he will give. Arriving at his destination, he flips the nearest chair around, squatting into it. The teen rests his wrists on the seat's back, looking around the sunny table.

"Well? What're you waiting for?" Loudly he guffaws, throwing his head back and hands out. "Behold! I am here! So," Suddenly he brings a fist down on the prongs of his fork, it flips once before he catches it mid-air. "Let us dig in, bitches!" Impaling his steaming meat slab, he brings the whole thing to his mouth, sinking his teeth in despite it's temperature.

"Heathen." Within a gasp, widened amber orbs regard the bits of food flying in the air, pale maw gaped in disgust as long fingers meticulously rotate the ceramic platter in front of him, mastering the meal's presentation. "Would you at least present our party the decorum of propriety?" Fork and knife tactfully placed within his vise, he starts in on his food, slicing his fish in strips accordant proportionate to the rest. Leering at the brute with every precise cut. "Sweet Heaven's sake, man."

"Kid, just avert your eyes, dude. It can't hear you, it's..." Soul leans in, ever-so-slightly, letting his breath carry the words in the wind as his fingers wrap around the greasy sandwich in front of him. "...feeding." With that, he takes a joyous bite to make his point.

Black Star snarls viciously, ripping at his rare steak with a pull of the nearly useless lever. Watery blood drips down his chin speckled with flecks of char and spice that he doesn't care to wipe; like a warpaint depicting the victor of a battle between man and dead cow. Kid shivers, diverting his attention back to his own food, making sure to kebab a representative from every side with every bite.

"Shutshh shyour frrayshes!" Piping up between piled forkfuls of spaghetti and gulping; effervescently cheering for the blue-haired wonder, the short-haired blonde waggles a disapproving finger at the two. "nnjussht feecausshhe he sshcan eashh like uhh manshh-"

"Patty!" Frowning, the elder sister shakes her head before pouring more dressing over the vibrant leaves and croutons in her dish.

"Whaa?" Patty tilts her head, full attention on her sibling as she chews her mouthful in smacks and slurps, marinara sauce smeared across the lines of her lips, reaching blindly for the slab of garlic bread at her plate's edge.

"Ugh. Lips Patty, Lips. Close them while you're chewing, at least." Rolling night-blue orbs, she picks up her fork, stabbing at her salad and impaling a piece of crispy bread with a crunch. Realizing that unanimous table manners would be a futile feat, she shoves the greens in her mouth, and continues in defeat.

"Blerrrrarrghhh!" One open palm outstretched to accentuate enormity of vocals -much like an opera singer- his utensils clang, crashing to polished wood mutely beneath Black Star's deafening belch as he rises from his backwards chair deliberately until the spew's end, earning more than a few glares from around the entire establishment. Staff and customers alike. "Aaannnndddd DONE!" Plopping down, he props his head up on a fist. "Did someone request my attention?"

Blowing snowy strands from his eyes, Soul plucks his soda from the table, taking in a satisfying sip to wash down the rest of his burger. Turning his head, red meets gold in silent understanding of 'I told ya so.'

"You're lucky not to be plucking old-housewife porn from your cranium, you know that?" Mumbling from a cheekful, Liz looks up from her greenery, giggling a bit. "Because if M..." Letting the sentence drop with a gulp, a twinge in her stomach causes her to place her fork down, pushing the bowl away.

Worrying her lip, her gaze dances around the table to pause at the empty space they always leave at their get-togethers... if not only out of girl's frown deepens. A supportive hand snakes it's way to her knee and she looks over, giving Kid the smallest of forced smiles, exhaling slowly through her nose. Because they don't talk about it... The stain on their souls, the breach of loyalty in their friendships. It is a sin that they can't take back, that can't be forgiven. So no one speaks of it.

But does any one else think about it? How horrible it felt to turn away the only other person to understand them all, for who they were at the very core? To watch as her mother disappeared and her father's health failed? To see that welcoming fire in Maka's eyes gradually die out to nothing but a chillingly blank stare? Witness her slink away from them all for their sakes, their own peace of mind as everything the girl worked for her entire school career fell through gaping fingers?

Maybe the rest of them do, maybe they don't... But Liz does, certainly. She was the first one to recoil, to drag her sister away from the potential dangers that Maka may pose. She was the first to betray her.

Clearing her throat, she smiles wider, trying to banish the nagging feeling coiling around her center. "Who wants dessert?"

"_FUCK YEAH!_" Black Star and Patty roar in unison, power fists in the air as food particles rain down to the table below while their peers duck beneath their arms for protection from the raucous outburst.

Soul glances sideways at the other beautiful blonde that has a hold on his heart, sensing the upset behind her bright simper and nods to himself before averting his sight out of the large window and into the filth-ridden city. Maka's out there, alone and hungry while they gather here, gaily enjoying the company of each other before they venture out in different directions, to universities -or in some cases, community college. She has nothing but the things she carries and the air in her lungs, her acceptance letters to Harvard, Duke, Princeton and her full-ride scholarship nothing but a forgotten achievement as her recommendations dwindled to nothing but letters of warning.

He could have said something, done something. Listened to her beyond his own fear. But he did nothing, is doing nothing... It is all his fault.

~O~O~O~

Cutting through the air with great swooshes and creaking at metal linked joints, the chained seat swings hard into the brilliance of the blue sky above. Sunlight braises the blonde's back through her thin cotton blouse, angled naked arms taking the full brunt, slightly alleviated by her created breeze with every to and fro. The girl doesn't care about that though, there is nothing new about the heat, nothing new about being hot, she's dealt with it her entire life in this small town-big city. No, right now, it's a convenience to her puzzled mind, a piece that doesn't need to be figured out, solved to any extent. She's got the temperature covered, this swing, the motions... but that pink-haired boy is another story entirely.

"I don't get it." Kicking Sven(x2) seemingly into the clouds, Maka mouths to herself with a little shake of her head, pigtails whipping furiously behind her before she starts her backward sway and her blonde locks flap past her ears, smacking at her face like tiny whips. Cacophonous is the wind as it hits the shells of her ears, a noisy rushing only making it that much more difficult to concentrate.

Did she do something wrong? What could have made that boy run off like that? She isn't bleeding, doesn't stink... What in the fresh hell just happened? It really shouldn't bother the girl, having been a solitary creature since her friends dismissed themselves from her life, but Maka can't help but wrack her brain, trying to figure this out. So sudden did that sky-eyed kid enter her world, and leave it just as quickly... she was enjoying the company, not having to be the elephant in a room of all-too-awareness. It was nice to just be a girl meeting another person in the most uncomfortable and awkward of ways, nice to be normal-ish for once. She couldn't sit there, at that tree, anymore. For some reason, the interest the teen had in reading, in sitting nestled into the rough divets of the roots, was no longer appealing. She would only sit and stare in the direction that his retreating form took, probably wearing the same stupid look she is now.

Jutting her legs out harder, the blonde keeps swinging, picking up speed as the atmosphere blows almost-cool air upon mindfully contorted features. Hearing nothing but the whine and chinks of the chains stretched out among moist palms and the cheering of the air at her ears, she watches as the world nears and retreats, again and again. Until the bright horizon and fluffy clouds pull her emerald orbs, drawing her into the slight drift with grey tinged white in it's trek through the atmosphere as the breath is beaten from her huffing chest from an unintended launch and the sharp little bladelets of jade grass poke at her exposed flesh. It itches, but, the girl is too deep in thought to care about such a minor disturbance.

That warmth was so pleasant, it still resounds so deeply within, among the frigidity and hollow. He's gone, though, she thought that heat would disappear with him. Why did he leave? Why does she still feel like this? What... What is this feeling? Hope? It can't be, can it?

No longer is the teen staring at the sky, she doesn't see the clouds, nor the vast blue. Birds do not chirp in the far-off and the blanket of brittle blades she is laying upon does not click with the movement of her body. Though, she does feel that heat in a familiar sense. Trapped only in a memory, a phantom of what used to be. No, right now, she is a small child, tucked securely beneath a colorful patched quilt, with ducks that seem to quack cutely, and waddle across the fabric. A honeyed baritone, the words lost but the pitch alight, lulling her heavy lids downward as soft feminine fingers work through her hair, a sensation that buzzes from her scalp right down to the girl's tiny toes.

When the green-eyed girl opens her eyes, she's looking into dark bubbling blue, aquatic life floats by in gorgeous, scaled hues and ribbony fins, as shelled crustaceans, digging with their pincers, throw haphazard grains upwards into the water, it then elegantly dances downward. Her little head turns, a smile so wide that plump cheeks ache, her chest feels so light, it tickles, Maka knows she's laughing, but she can't hear it, nor the words that her mother speaks as she brushes a dark brown lock behind her ear, those pink lips moving, flashing straight white teeth, the blonde can't hear her voice. But, her smile never falters, and she nods excitedly.

The girl blinks, and in an instant, her arms are tightly wound about her papa's neck, pudgy legs dangling from either side as she rides on his back. Momma holds back a branch, sweat glistens on her forehead as she chats quickly, bright eyes bouncing from papa to Maka and back as they trek through mountains on a trail that was just a bit too much for a little girl, determined to see it to the end. She pulls closer to the man, feeling the vibrations from his neck on her small arms. His head leans back slightly in an armless hug, nuzzling her in his deep affection. Her momma, a lovely, lively fit brunette with cat-eyes and a megawatt smile, rubs her back in small circles, working out an ache in Maka's tiny tired muscles and she shuts emerald orbs, letting that comfort sink in. A kiss to her forehead lingers as she is brought back to the present, tears stinging her vision and the itching nuisance at her back.

The teen sniffs back the tears, unsure whether they were to be happy or sad, as she lifts a numb-tingling hand to absently rub at the surface of the warmth lodged deep within her being.

~O~O~O~

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite understand you." Bubbling out quickly in reply to the pinkette's mumbles, the blonde moves a bit, grass around her crunching giving the girl away. "Could you repeat that, please?"

"Just look at the bitch when you speak to her, unless you want to keep repeating yourself like one of those annoying bird-things, the fuckers. Be a man! Men don't mumble!" Roaring through the pinkette's mind, the brotherly sentiment works on the boy's already hectic nerves. "PENIS PRIDE!" Oh, the sheer volume of his own mind is startling enough without the yelling. But, Crona jerks his head up, a look of mortification draining the already-lackluster color from his cheeks.

Those dazzling emerald orbs are studying him, so warm, lined so beautifully with the friendly smile the girl is already wearing. She's... breathtaking. Unfortunately, all of that oxygen escaped the boy's tightening gullet in an obnoxiously high squeak, making him cringe.

No, he can't speak to her. He doesn't know how to deal with anyone but his own family, and not even that much... Much less a gorgeous girl with soft-looking hair and such an all-encompassing warmth radiating from her deep eyes and brilliant smile. No, he doesn't know how to deal with girls. Or, anyone else... Before he can think, embarrass himself further, the pinkette's newly shielded feet are thudding quickly against brittle green grass and those solid ebony bars are growing, looming as he nears them, an escape from that which he does not know, out of that overly-inviting heat and back into the cold clutches of his reality.

The last people he came in contact with, that little family with the happy little boys, the doctor and his wife... They are dead. The one thing that Crona accomplished on his own in this foreign world was to destroy the life of those he fleetingly envied. He's doing this girl a favor, right? The boy is a murderer, ignorant or no, he has killed people, and a tarnished soul should not sully such as she. He hears the angry protest of startled, walking teens and distant horns of passing cars, but can't see anything but the concrete below. It's pebbles and pores stream with every rapid stride like a river of rubbish he has to wade through in order to reach his destination. Sticking to his torso and limbs, the jet, silken fabric flows flippantly behind his lithe, racing frame, constricting his chest further with every heavy, fast respiration.

Tears seem to singe his sockets, scalding his cheeks as they fall, clouding his sight until nothing but brown, grey and blue blobs are visible. It doesn't even matter though, as his legs have stopped pumping and his weight is being weakly supported by the wood at his side. Painful, stabbing stitches haunt the rosy-haired teen's ribs, and he sputters from dry throat. Salted drainage splatters from bared lips as he fights that laughter from echoing it's torment through the boy's mentality, as he tries desperately to disregard that girl and the way her eyes lit up with him in spite of the emptiness he was used to seeing.

Crona doesn't want to be the one to snuff that light out forever, but he giggles all the same.

~O~O~O~

"HOLYFLYINGFUCKINGSHITBEAST!" Pulled, Patty stumbles back a few paces as a flash of black and pink cuts her path, a hand to her heaving chest as she tries to pacify the startled muscle within. The pixie haired blonde had only seen the object incoming from the edge of her vision, and in thanks, rubs a heated cheek against the bronzed knuckles at her shoulder, her pointed gaze at the back of the speeding... thing. She grits her teeth, boiling contempt strengthening her jaw, the utter lack of consideration pissing her off.

"HEY! WATCH WHERE THE HELL YOU'RE GOING, DIPSHIT! HAD IT BEEN ME YOU WERE TO RUN INTO, YOU'D BE IN A COMA BY NOW!" Black Star grips the soft ivory shoulder a little harder, ending his warning. His voice easily booms among angry horns blaring from the street.

"YEAH! COME BACK HERE AND TRY THAT SHIT AGAIN, I BET YOU WON'T BE SO LUCKY TO MAKE AN ESCAPE NOW!" Palms to the sky, Patty's arms wide, she challenges the figure, still running away. "Bring it on!" The girl howls, though it's of no use. That person hasn't given them a second glance, but her words are more for herself. Dignity is at stake and she has to prove she still has some... Or, is it that she just felt like yelling at a jackass? Whatever.

"Are you two quite done?" Lowering lithe hands from tormented ears, Kid sighs. "Your language is deplorable."

"Dude, did you not see the human rocket nearly make impact?" Snowy brows tick upwards in baffled half-amusement before crimson orbs take in the flowing blonde tresses clinging to Liz's back as she fusses over her sister, calming her, checking her.

"Some things just can't be helped, Soul." Amber grazes the albino, though he's busy. Kid smiles quaintly to himself. He knows that look, admiration and adoration. It's about time.

"Touche." He growls lightly between his full incisorous grin, still watching as the glinting golden strands dance along the girl's slender back, falling to curl around the tight curve of her waist, as she leans to whisper into her sisters ear. Wandering orbs stop at the gap at the top of the blonde's jeans where out peaks shining black strings that seemingly mold to her skin, beneath the slightly hypnotic indents of the Liz's lower back.

"Bro, you see that-" Blue mane waves side to side as the boy shakes his head, cutting himself short in order to gain the full attentions he deserves, and... to save white-haired broheim from being 'that guy.' The creepy starer. Bringing calloused fingers in front of the teens face, Black Star snaps loudly. "'Ey! Earth to Souly-boy!"

"What?!" Narrowing red an arched achromic brow turns toward the teen.

"Calm down, Cassanova." Fingers no longer busy with snapping, he pats the albino on his head, laughing out the words. "I was just wondering, did you see who that was?"

"Not really." Plucking Black Star's over-sized mitt from his skull, he answers honestly.

"It was no one that I recall having ever met before, now that I think about it. Maybe a new resident?" Kid muses, no longer seeing the culprit he begins walking again. He is certainly not going to cross here, there is a perfectly good crosswalk at the nearest intersection.

"Nope, I don't think we've ever seen that person before." Holding her sister's hand, she gives a light tug, bringing the younger girl with her as she follows the striped noirette. Everyone grudgingly follows suit. Every time. Every damn time, they forget to use the other crosswalk and have to go out of their way to appease Kid and his orders of operation. An obsession of compulsion. But Liz won't complain, it keeps her sister and friends safe.

"Hey..." Pursing pouty pink lips, Patty ponders, "Do you think it was a boy or a girl?" The group stops as the boy pushes the button to cross.

"You know, it was wearing a dress... I think." Scratching his cheek, Soul pipes up.

"And it had pink hair." Running digits through his own stiff blue locks, Black Star puffs up proudly. Always so proud. YOLO.

"But it smelled like a boy!" Exclaiming, the pixie-haired blonde knits her brows. Everyone turns toward her.

"Patty, you are surrounded by boys." Liz offers with a wince, trying not to think about her sister sniffing some random stranger.

"And what do boys smell like, doll? I know I smell of only the finest musk, for I am a man of men!" Black Star chuckles, grinning hugely and sending the girl a wink that isn't noticed. But it is, because all women and men alike notice him. It's a blessing and a curse.

"Are we all seriously going to keep labeling a person as an 'it'?" Taking note of the bright white walking man on the otherwise black sign, Kid looks right, left and right again, speaking distractedly as he begins his trek across the pebble and tar asphalt, careful to walk between the painted lines. "And, Patty, please do not make a regular habit of smelling people. I don't want to be forced to reevaluate our friendship." Clipped as his sentiments come out, the small amused simper he flashes the short blonde speaks otherwise, and she giggles in response before taking on a serious countenance that scrunches up her face.

"Yes, sir!" Ebony starts it's elegant fenced line to their left, Patty breaks from the noirette to lock sights with grassy orbs staring right back. Sky blue narrows at Black Star in an understood unspoken challenge, that bubbly tinkle gone in place of a deep ferocity as she starts the count. "3."

"2." Inspired by competition, the teen grinds out his number while lowering; toned, conditioned thighs flex impressively holding his weight with ease as she bends even lower, sliding a long, slender leg behind her compact form, delicate palms to the scratchy pavement. Liz, Soul, and Kid habitually move out of the way, pressing their backsides to the hard iron bars.

Coolly assuming his role, Soul points his finger-gun to the sky, triggering the start to yet another race with a sharp grin. "Go."

Everyone commences their tread as the two zip down the sectioned pavement, their sneakers pounding, limbs swinging, pushing them both closer to the arched jet finish-line. Liz looks on, silently cheering Patty's swift grace as the girl ducks her head, pumping her legs as fast as they can go. For a moment, she's in the lead by a slim shoulder, until Black Star's stride stretches farther than her own, and he passes her.

It almost looks as if the teen is leaping, how spread his heavily covered feet are from each other, but Patty doesn't give up, forcing her sturdy converse into the hard surface below to bound as she had never before, obviously the blonde's normal sprint would not cut it. Flexibility training at the gym proves a formidable ally, the girl's short blonde locks and other assets bounce with every nearly unthinkable running split. Patty manages her breath well, but a stitch in her side from the recent meal stabs at her and she gives into a little whining heave.

Black Star looks over, nostrils wide and lips a tight line, slightly gapped for expelling air, he's still running, still punishing pavement as skilled as any track champion, though curious to know if his competitor has forfeited. An old foe rises and falls, the banging of shoes give way to background static as once sportly focused jade focuses in on a different sort of sport. One more soft and animated than the race itself.

Like a hormonal switch has been flipped, the sounds around him, the brightness, the concrete below are softened, the jolting flesh in the blue-maned teen's view takes on slow-motion with everything around naught but translucent fuzz.

Suddenly, this dreamlike trance is broken, Black Star finds himself stumbling over his high-top sports boots and onto the porous, grating slab below. A hand stretches out, as he snaps back into reality, but falls just short of the line as the pixie-haired blonde roars out in triumph, grabbing at the gate's ebony top as it's hinges squeal at her added hanging weight.

"I WIN!" Patty huffs after the initial declaration, her hand steadying herself as she squats down in front of the groundward boy. "In... your... face!" Gulping down oxygen, the teen rasps out a chuckle.

"You che-" He would have finished had he kept looking at the blonde's flushed, smiling face, but, he immediately stops, because she's right. She did win, and the bigger person always admits defeat when fair and square. "'Grats... But don't think... this isn't a... one time thing." Black Star finally gets out between heavy breaths. Though, he doesn't get up right away. He'll stay down for a bit, not willing to give away the reason of his loss... Again.

"Alright..." Straightening back out to stretch her still-painful side, the girl sticks her tongue out at him, "sore loser."

"Never." Vexed by the accusation, he pulls his achy limbs into a kneel, readying to stand, to defend his unmistakable honor, but before he can get another word in a distinct slow clap swells in volume and number as the rest of the group joins them.

"Good race, bro?" Soul stops clapping to hide a pointy chuckle. "I saw what happened." Quelling the his bubbled trill, he clenches shut his lips, offering a supportive caress to Black Star's thickly muscled shoulder. "I know, dude... I know."

"Great job, another win to put on the old dry-erase board!" Liz gives a thumbs-up to her younger sister, she turns and give the boy a smile, but the way her orbs narrow and forehead crinkles, the bluette knows he's upset her. Ah, yes. Jealousy. Doesn't Liz know that she's free to challenge him, too? Black Star grins back.

Kid eyes the boy a moment, enough time to catch his attention, and then, he merely offers the boy a nod. Because he understands. Even though these two are basically his fostered sisters, he too has been thwarted by the pestering asymmetry of a mature female's chest. Clearing his throat, he reaches a pale, elegant hand toward the barrier's lightly rusted latch. "Shall we get play-time over with, then?"

"I call the squirrel!" Before the noirette has a chance to press the shoddy mechanism, the recovered blonde forces past it, taking advantage of it's run-down state in order to claim a faded, smiling, rocking pogo rodent, Kid pulls his arm safely from the creaking barricade just in time for the bluette to zip through, on Patty's heels.

"Fuck your squirrel, the elephant is better than that rickety p.o.s!" Black Star gains some ground, laughing at the girl as she squeals, flushed in anger at his utter disrespect at the cheery animal.

"You're so sure? Maybe I should take your elephant and let you take the squirrel for a spin, hmmm?" Pushing herself harder, she quickens her pace getting a few steps ahead.

"HELL NO!" Barking at her, he begins a sprint landing him in step with the offending teen. "You keep to your lowly dirty rats, chika!" His large hand covers the girl's face shoving her back in attempts to beat her to the fun spring animals across the crisp emerald grass, in that bed of potpourri-red woodchips.

Their frustrated yet amused laughter cuts loudly through the quiet park, the clouds cast lumpy shadows as they pass the bright, blazing star in the clear sky. Blowing gently, a breeze rustles the gate-bound teens' hair. Soul smiles a mischievous-looking grin as he raises his voice a couple of octaves, clasping his hands together beneath his chin. "They grow up so fast." Batting his eyes for good measure.

Rolling dark-royal pools, Liz scoffs at the boy with a smirk as she elbows him in the side, passing through the complaining iron door. "You aren't any better."

"Hey!" Arching a snowy brow, the albino follows the tall teen as she hums lightly. "Watch your mouth, silly girl. You don't see me riding that shifty rocket, or the car with a missing wheel, do you?"

"Only because you have no balance and the broken one pinches your ankle." Kid sighs, from behind the two, finally stepping into the crunchy green lawn, snorting to himself.

"Dude, not cool." Soul whips around, pursing his lips, scrunching his round face at an attempt of horribly conveyed annoyance. "I have perfect balance!"

"You lie." Kid stops. A cracked simper spreading across his face as his head cocks to the side, an accusatory finger pointing, he licks his lips, taking a deep breath to prepare his lungs for the onslaught. "One eye is lower than the other, your right nostril is slightly bigger than your left, your left ear is bigger and your right is lower, your mouth is crooked, you lean when you stand and its not any better when you're walking or sitting and..." The noirette pauses for dramatic effect, the smile wider, though his eye is twitching violently, he falls in stride with the albino, "...is that scoliosis or are you just that happy to be near me?"

"You're an ass." Soul gasps, then chuckles.

"Oh yeah," the pale, triple-striped teen points a digit to the sky, as if shouting 'eureka!' "At least that is symmetrical on you. You really can't go wrong with 'flat.'"

"You guys really aren't that much different..'" Liz giggles from in front of them, sitting herself down on the off-white and rusted merry-go-round, looking to the intense, stationary rocking-race going on a few yards away. Kid looks appalled, Soul just shrugs.

"Elizabeth, you take that back!" The noirette squawks, mouth hanging agape.

"Nope." Sticking her tongue out on a momentary glance at the two, the long-haired blonde returns her gaze to the others as they slam themselves hard enough to mix up their organs and give themselves whiplash. "Not gonna happen."

Unstable and in motion, the young blonde plots against her stocky, tiny man-foe. He's been talking his big-shot bull and it's time for the blue-haired monkey to eat wood-shittings. She grips the hot plastic handle, planting her left foot on the small peg and gripping the heat-sticky squirrel saddle with the bend in her knee and thigh. Black Star is really going at it, the thick metal coil beneath squeaks and grinds with every forceful to and fro, his eyes are squinted, probably to fend off dizziness because this pussy won't admit that he gets motion sickness. Patty grits her teeth, cheeks puffed out from the menacing grin cracking across her face.

It feels like forever, waiting when something important is about to go down. But, within that stretched moment, the hard pogo pachyderm is throttled backward from the tension, it's shining surface beautifully reflects the harsh sun's rays, a sign from the heavens to move forth, and she does.

The trusty rodent swings backward as the elephant reaches the brink in-between and out her long leg juts, kicking back, catching the bluette off-guard with her shoe to his chest. He's successfully ejected from the faded, majestic child's play-thing, his ass skidding, snapping the wooden things with his head, he completes his punishment as she laughs at him from above.

"What the fuck was that for?!" Nose scrunched, Black Star shrieks in only the manliest of ways. "I'm gonna have splinters in my asshole, you dirty rat-sleaze!"

"You deserved it." Out of breath with her trill, she exhales, collapsing on the chipper woodland creature's neck, rubbing the ache out of her sides with a limp palm.

"I did nothing!" How could a guy like him deserve such crude treatment? That's just absurd. Black Star almost gasps at the glare the girl shoots him from the swaying squirrel, but he holds it in, just watching her with a soured expression as she elegantly roll-falls from the tiny mammal and scuttles up to him on her knees, nearing him so close she could touch her nose to his.

"Take it back, you did so." Bright blue darkens with a half-lid eclipse, her tone dangerous, slow and low.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, honey. But if it was just a ploy to get in my lap, then cut the shit and hop in." Behind a sly smile, he whispers the words so thickly she could probably feel every syllable on her face as he spreads his arms, fingers pointing to his love seat. He knows she can't resist.

"You broke my giraffe!" The blonde growls pressing into a stand before smirking. "But thanks for the seat!" And she drops, full weight into the boy's 'cushion.'

He can't breathe, his stomach is in his brain and all of his blood seems to have taken sanctuary behind his eyes. The world, this park in all of it's obnoxious brightly colored glory, is spinning, swirling and heavy, oh so heavy. Black Star can't hold himself upright any more and the tiny bounces that the lap-occupying teen's giggles provide his beaten testicles isn't helping. It's overwhelming, the shocks of pure agony that shoot up his tight abdomen to the top of his skull. The bluette is going to puke, cough, cry, choke, suffocate... Is he even breathing? Black Star doesn't know anything right now, other than the fact that he's falling the rest of the way back to the ground.

"G-God... damn... it." He wheezes out with air that was trapped upon initial impact, the shavings scrape against his cheek, it stings, but he doesn't care. She's still laughing, and he hasn't the strength to get her off. He's her prisoner, and it sucks.

"Oh! -whew-," Patty quells her barking, staring from the empty area where her beloved long-necked creature used wobble and back to the boy, face twisted in pain, finding a budding pit of mercy, she removes herself from his tortured giblets. "You better hope the city orders a new one, or else that will only be a taste of what's to come in your near future, jackass." With a few parting pats to the teen's head, the pixie-haired girl departs in favor of a new adventure.

"Come swing with me, Liz~!"

"That was kind of harsh..." Under her breath, the elder sister forces an uneasy smile, waving at her bounding sibling. "Okay! I'll be right there!"

"He should have known." Kid shrugs, casually not investigating any further. It sounded horrible, the image wasn't necessary.

"Unfortunately, 'knowing' isn't one of his better qualities." Soul coughs into his fist, a guise to no longer witness his fallen comrade's agony, behind raven and lined white, amber orbs notice the albino's empathy pain.

"Shall we take a moment of silence?" A somber day it is when a man may have possibly lost the parts to make him such, prayer for recovery is a necessary deed.

"No better time than now, right?"

"True." With this, both Kid and Soul bow their heads. One second, two...

"Annnnnnd done!" Running a musically calloused hand through downy pale strands, Soul walks through the gate. "Let's go sit down or something," following the fast little short-haired vixen with a finger, he keeps on, into the vast green and trippy disjointed rainbow colors, "This might take a while."

Through kaleidoscopic plaything obstacles, fallen branches and brittle grass, the Thompson sisters run. Across the park in an almost dreamlike glory, their golden tresses shine in the warm wind with every jolting step ahead. Giggles float around them in the breeze, dusting the twos' cheeks in joy-filled exerted pink.

"Patty." Suddenly, Liz stops; frozen in motion as the laughter dies a hollow death in her chest. Still caught up in the moment, the other doesn't hear her as she continues to pump light-footed legs and breathe out rolling, unfettered joy.

"Patty!" This time is not much better, her sister's name not much more than a scratchy sob, caught between two oppressive sides of morality. "Stop."

A small glance back nothing but a grant to the lost elder sister, the younger Thompson stumbles upon the lines of distress upon Liz's face. But it's too late, a single moment takes the girl from her feet to her knees, hands burning against the surface of coarse sand, creaking chained seats whine from the disturbance in the wind as it vacantly sways a yard away.

"Oof!" Orbs closed tight upon impact, Patty hisses as if it would take the pain away. Opening sky blues to inspect granule coated palms she claps the dirt away from her reddened skin. "Ow..."

"What's-" Turning her pixie blonde head she starts her query, but never finishes. Something moves out of the corner of her eye, thieving her attention from now-forgotten words. "... Ma...ka...?"

The elder sister scrambles to catch up to her side, a difficult feat for the clumsy and speed impaired but she manages, gripping her little sister's arm at the elbow and pulling her to a stand in Liz's stunned yet protective embrace.

Dilated emerald peeks at the blinding world above through a sheet of drying tears, a lifeless smile playing at tight lips as the sun's rays work its magic across her tanned flesh, the heat traveling in wavering pulses and she moves a limp hand to clutch at the warmth still flittering about within her breast.

A gasp pulls Maka from her daze, quickly she raises up on the heel of her palm to inspect, bringing her face to faces of yet another set of distant memories. Those two packages of cherubic beauty, blonde hair, bright eyes and familial love. A sour chuckle catches in her throat and she breaks contact because she knows, the look marring both of those pretty faces is because of her.

"Maka-" It's low, airy, as if whispered by an angel but short, no doubt hushed by the elder.

It doesn't matter, this is just how everything is meant to play out, right? Sluggish from her prior mental disconnect, she moves, granting herself time to get the blood pumping in each of her tingling limbs. There is no rush, Maka doesn't have anywhere she needs to be.

Only one set of deep azure follows, the other girl tucked almost painfully against Liz's shoulder. What can one say in this situation, really? 'I love you to death, but we can no longer associate with you because you might give us diseases'? 'Hey, long time no see! We should talk more, but you should stay a minimum of two hundred feet from us so that we can stay safe and clean'? No, anything that could be said would probably just make matters worse. Sometimes it's best just to stay silent... Even though it hurts to watch her silently, maybe Liz's prayers for the girl's well-being will be heard. Hopefully.

The pigtailed teen gathers her things without a glimpse back, but she can sense the stares connecting to her person from all around, Maka lowers her face even further, as if it would help the unpleasant rising of her skin and the queasiness pulling at her belly. She can't stay here any longer. Not only a service to those she used to call 'friends' but to herself as well. One can only take this unease, these ostracizing eyes and betraying emotions before it all comes crashing down like stone wall to rubble and dust. She won't show them how much this pain sears into her, they don't need to know.

"Liz, I-" Patty whispers against her sister's collar, her bright blue eyes dull, clouded with an expression birthed by a maelstrom of emotions, none amiable, "I don't think I want to play anymore."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people.

**Chapter 6:**

Splintering beneath his balled fist, the rosette stares through the grainy wooden fence, eyes a haunted blank as his heart, oh that traitorous thing, beats as if he was still running. This inner turmoil betraying outer inaction captivating his being.

Face hurting, his jaw is clenched so tightly as if staving off the pain of torture, though the wide smile stretching across his features hint at something quite different. Crona is contradiction in it's truest form. He's sure of it, ... the boy thinks. Maybe not.

Eyes dry, they water, wavering in the vision that he is not quite utilizing. The distant vehicle motors, birdsong and wind serve as nothing but white noise as the sun beats down upon the teen's back, turning his trusty black robe into an instrument scorching his thin, hunched shoulders that barely rise and fall with every unintentional bated breath.

What is the boy waiting for? Walk into that yard with the rocks that prick his feet, through those doors and inside of that house, across cold floor and go back up those stairs, through the halls and into that empty room. Forget all that has happened, go to sleep. Wait for Doctor Medusa to give her next task, complete it and become one step closer to seeing Ragnarok again.

There is no need to fret about anything unnecessary, he doesn't, by law nor connection, actually exist in this world, this city. How can a person care, if the person isn't real? Crona's not real, is he?

The clamor of iron scraping against iron and clashing against more of the metal perks the boy's ear, automatically his head cocks to investigate. His eyes still empty as they watch through choppy pastel strands the bright scene before him.

It's funny, how those blank emerald orbs drew his attention the first time he saw them, how they mesmerized him with their unfathomable depths, and now they frighten him. His face drops, that smile falling slowly in twitches as his heart almost jerks to a stop.

He's not scared of her, no. Crona is shaken by the absence of that dazzling life that had been there not but few moments before, by how vacant and devoid of all warmth he knows those eyes had the ability to hold. The way she walks is both stiff and loose, practiced, robotic and routine. Disconcerting, but he can't help but to follow, drawn to this blonde girl once more as she steps further into the city and in turn further out of his comfort zone. For some reason unknown, the pinkette thinks he would probably follow her anywhere.

Soles comfortably cushioned from the harsh concrete below, pinched brow and azure trained on the blonde locks at the girl's back, he carries himself with light shuffling footsteps every stride. Day's heat circling thin ankles, he grips his right arm with the trembling digits of his left as the colors seem to drain from their surrounding in place of grey and black, trees and bush replaced by tall buildings that line the sky as ominous as monsters that he's read about.

Automatically, the boy stops when she does, curiously observing her press a button on a pole in front of some white lines upon the faded black road. He knows these actions, Crona reads, has seen some movies... But it's different experiencing something first hand.

"You're back." The pinkette jolts in surprise at her sudden words, a flat statement. Nothing more, nothing less.

"S-sorry." So, he says the only thing that would come to mind, remembering his sudden departure earlier.

"Why are you apologizing?" That flat tone cracks slightly, though the girl hasn't turned around. She's just gazing at the red figure on the sign above, if the angle of her head is any indication. "I'm used to people running away."

Stunned, the boy's mouth opens, but shuts just as quickly. Unable to think of anything in response. Grip tightening, it shoots a sharp pain up his arm, that full fist jitters in it's solid force.

"I won't run away again!" Crona blurts this, without really much thought, he means it, as much as someone like him can. A hush hollow giggle follows and it's not a pretty sound to the pinkette's ears, not like the tinkling trill he heard in the park that sent his face aflame and his blood rushing with giddiness he's never felt before. No, this is a heart tugging drone to match the emptiness in her eyes that makes his throat thick with an ache he can't truly describe.

"Everyone fades eventually, be it circumstantial or by choice." Maybe she can hear his deflated astonishment or maybe she's just continuing a thought, but the depth of Maka's breath and the small sigh that escapes breathes a sort of resigned resolution. "It's okay."

He hasn't realized that the red figure above is replaced by white until Maka begins to walk, her head down, the lines passing in succession, a tandem of rock-speckled black and broad white between a spread sea of rumbling engines. The pinkette stumbles on the slope at his feet, he scuttles his sandal-clad soles to catch up, a brief moment of cold panic amplifies his effort as the little lit man on the sign starts flashing until he's fewer paces behind the blonde's heels.

"Why?" Out of breath and still hurrying to leave this terrifying street, he asks, not knowing what else to say in order to convey his confusion at such a bleak outlook. It's not like he's any more optimistic or anything, but the boy felt it necessary to voice it. Why do people have to leave? Why does she feel this way? Why is she speaking to him as if he's just going to disintegrate into nothing at any moment? Why is she so... empty? 'Why' seemed the only obvious question to ask. Thankfully the girl waits until blessed sidewalk is underfoot to stop, halted in her tracks by the small voice of the teen behind her.

Why, indeed?

"Do you want me to give you a list or something?" Snapping, Maka's mind flashes to the pitying and disgusted looks of all the people she's ever considered a friend, Spirit's cold hospital bed and the empty rooms of the place she used to call home. Tears burn at the duct, but she scowls to keep them at bay. The startled squeak at her back reminds the blonde to take a breath, and open eyes that she didn't know she closed.

"It's just the outcome when 'life' happens." She mumbles her addition, a hand going to the strap of her bag, gripping it in an attempt to regain herself and her stance in reality. He still follows as Maka begins once more, turning a corner and passing reflective storefront windows. "School, work, marriage, divorce, illness, and death, moving and arguments... There's just too much that can go into answering such a loaded question."

Orbs wandering the many wares advertised in behind panes of glass and the girl's image ghosting over it all, Crona hums in thought, pondering everything she offered in turn. Though warped by each wall-disturbed pane, the rosette does note the obvious spark in the blonde's eyes. Be it anger, or some other volatile emotion, he's sure it's better than that vacant look that was there before. A minuscule smile curves his mouth in just the slightest of ways before a question was fired right back at him.

"What's your name, anyway?"

Oh... Right. He never did introduce himself properly after pretty much watching her read for that stint and scaring her. And... Crona's been following her for, what, almost an hour now? Stupid!

"Gah! Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! M-My name is Crona." That entity so much like his brother is barking with uncontrollable laughter at the mini-spaz attack now, and needless to say, it is distracting.

"Crona." The girl spins on her heel, walking backward presumably so that she can meet him eye-to-eye establishing a correct personal debut, and testing his name on her lips. He blushes at the sound, so different from when the doctor or even Ragnarok says it. Crona likes it. "I'm Maka."

"M-Maka." The rosette really likes this girl's name, because it requires a little smile to form it right.

'So pansy, it sounds like something a farmer would call his dairy cow.' Well, no one asked you, freaky copy-cat inner voice thing.

"Yeah..." Is it just him, or did that gorgeous green get a smidgen brighter? He can't make sure as she turns back to face front again, but a wobbly grin paints his features and he speeds up to walk closer to this girl, eager to hear anything else she may offer; to learn more about his precious story's mysterious heroine and flip another page.

~O~O~O~

"C'mon, cheer up blondie!" Raking a tanned mitt through his azure mane, Black Star pokes at the younger sister's pout-plumped cheek. "We've gotta cherish this time together, or some shit... Ya know I'll be leaving this dump soon to spread glory to Nevada State's athletic department, so you should take me in in all of my raw awe-inspiring splendor. Go ahead, I'll give you a full five minutes."

Patty's eyes flicker to the stalwart teen bending to meet her sitting height, an eyebrow ticking upward as her face wars itself between appalled and fairly amused at his audacity. The pixie-cut blonde settles for sticking out her tongue but the young male takes this as a sign of his overwhelming charm victorious over the many nuances of the female mind and grins toothily.

"Get out of my face," the girl snickers, pushing against his forehead with both palms.

"You know you like it!"

"Pfft! Whatever, guy..." Coming too close for comfort and leaving the girl stuck at a lay on hard park bench, she winks before rolling off into the grass below, Black Star stumbles, a leg kicking an unmanly height behind him as he tries to avoid the blonde's weapon body-ball, the bluette recovers by laying on the planks belly-side down.

"I'm gonna tell Tsubaki on you~!" Patty sings, artfully plopping on his back, a satisfactory 'unff!' making her smile grow in a way only a sadist would understand.

"I... did nothing... but state... the truth!" Black Star puts up a gallant fight for breath against the girl on his back that weighs way more than she looks, and he wins, because his name is synonymous for 'triumph.' Well, not literally but as far as anyone else who knows him... they get it.

"But then again, didn't she, like, turn you down or something?" Forgetting that she was down to begin with, Patty turns, a leg bent while the other dangles, her small hands separating his hair into a tri-sectioned mess as she begins a crude braid. The boy beneath shakes his head, but the girl holds her ground and he huffs.

"I far surpass the limits of monogamy, woman. It would be a shame, downright selfish of me to keep all of this magnificence locked away for only one to enjoy."

"Right." Thoroughly unconvinced, she continues her ministrations.

Only a few paces away, flashes of crimson, amber, and blue peek at the scene as they spin on the small merry-go-round. Sitting on the faded circle at appropriate and equal distances apart, Liz and Soul cross-step, keeping the children's plaything in motion as Kid sits cross-legged pondering the passing world as a thin Buddha with a pokerface.

"They look comfy." The elder Thompson sister ponders, a worry-marred smile upon her face, eager to break the silence. A grunt of agreement follows shortly after the sitting area rotates out of sight, then a hum of contemplation trails. Well... That didn't quite work out the way it was meant to...

"Ya know, you never actually answered my question." Using her teeth to remove a hairtie from its rest around her wrist, the bubbly blonde muses as she secures her art and pats the boy beneath on the head. Hopping off of him, she stands before the bench with hands on her hips, a proud visage in all of the girl's five feet something inches. The blue-haired boy raises wandering digits to inspect her work with a scrunched nose before pressing himself into a proper sit.

"She was intimidated. It was a reasonable response that I'd expect from anyone blinded by my godlike aura." Black Star smirks but Patty snorts, laughter falling in breathless sheets in an instant.

"What? You shouldn't mock her reaction, it was only natur-"

"Ah... AHAHAHAHAAHAHAAAAAAA!" Short flaxen locks fall into the girls face as she doubles over, clutching her sides as the guffaw forces its way through her system. The stocky male just lifts a brow, at her. Soon enough, she calms down enough to right herself, wiping at her eyes and giving off a snickering sigh.

"You done?"

"Oh man, that looks cute on you." Cerulean pools sparkle as they watch the little braid sway alongside his narrowed eyes.

"Handsome." A bronze hand comes up, numbering the words as he barks them out. "Bold. Noble. Hot. ...I'd even allow fucking 'dapper'! But 'cute?' No god damn way, honey." He moves to destroy the tiny braid, but Patty dives to save the thing because she worked so ardently on it.

"NO LEAVE IT!" A tight grip rips his hand away roughly and she heaves breath in harsh unnecessary pants. "Just leave it. You always let Maka do it... Just... Just let it stay."

Olive green orbs widen at this and he lifts his arms in truce, watching as the teen's face drops, all humor erased with a twitching frown.

"Geez, I'll leave your mark upon my shrine. You don't need to get all territorial on me." Black Star gives a cogent chuckle, relieved that that sad look seems to lighten with a pressed grin. Even gods need to be mindful of their followers.

Round and round, gradually the disk whirls, each of its occupants a witness to the scene and unsure of what exactly just happened.

"If they ever seriously get together, as bad as it sounds, I hope they don't reproduce." Feet moving, one over the other, Liz's body shudders involuntarily as the mental imagery surges, conquering her brain with a migraine and anxious dismay.

"I doubt it will ever truly come to pass."

"Yeah. Black Star might carry himself as the sole gift to womankind, but he doesn't even know where the clitoris is." A sharp grin and sanguine pools scan the two talking in the distance briefly, devilish delight evident in his tone. The eldest Thompson nearly chokes on her own spit.

"W-What?!"

"That's not exactly true." Amber flickers upon a memory, a small beguiling simper forming on his otherwise collected features.

The other two stay quiet, largely in-wait for the striped-noirette to continue. They wait... And wait... And wait...

"Well...?" Long hair tickling her chest, she twists in agitation, boring holes in the back of the boy's head.

"Well what?"

"Man, c'mon! You can't just say something mysteriously knowledgeable about something like this and not expect other people not to want more info." Soul rolls his eyes, scratching at his cheek in attempt to dispel the awkwardness of needing to even point that out.

"Oh, right. Well, it happened directly following the sexual education refresher course in our freshman year. Maka, Black Star and I had the same block period, but he fell asleep." Closing his golden orbs in blink and 'tsk', the teen pauses. "There was a test coming and we were grouped together, with the average grade at the end of it given to the team as a whole."

"Basically, Maka gave Black Star the "Birds and Bees' talk?" The girl remarks with an astonished giggle, Soul snorting in response.

"Not quite a talk, no. She found that he didn't learn to his best abilities in that manner. So, she had him play games... Almost like 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' and 'Twister.'"

That was it. Just thinking about the self-centered blue-haired boy blindfolded and absolutely clueless with a name tag at the end of a thumbtack in front of a picture of female genitalia sent two of the three teen's from the circular ride in a fit of rolling guffaws, a phantom imaginary instruction like 'left hand, vulva!' enforcing the barks.

"What?" Mumbles Kid as the ride spins at a snail's pace, eyes wide when he see the blonde and albino near-painfully laughing into the grass and sand.

~O~O~O~

"No... " Its gone, nothing but dirt and caution tape remain. A gap in the happy structures lining the street with kempt lawns and families inside of them. That house, just like her family, has vanished and Maka can only stand on this hot, sun-beaten sidewalk looking helplessly at the lone place it once stood.

"Is something wrong?" The rose-haired boy asks innocently, not knowing the significance of this plot of dirt, or the reason behind the girl's solemn gaze.

"This is... " How should she put it? 'This is where my family lived before it was ripped apart and abandoned, leaving me with bills that couldn't be paid and nothing to call my own.' No, those are far too many words for this freshly turned soil, vacant of anything remotely indicating the residence it once held. "This is where I used to live."

It should have been clear to her, she knew the house was in foreclosure and that huge noisy crowd wasn't just coincidence. What do they call it? Foreclosure auctions? Yeah, that seems about right. People calling out horrendously low bids on a roof and four walls that had seen the best and worst of times... Basically stealing the floor in which her first steps had been taken and the rooms where her first words had rung out to her smiling mother and happy father.

The new owner tore down the walls and now, this open space is the equivalent of how she thought of it when she slept alone with nothing but dust and mold to surround Maka.

"Oh." He shifts uncomfortably, not liking the way her face hardens or the dark cloud that seems to dim those jade pools. "Do you live somewhere else now? N-Not that I'm expecting to follow you home or come inside or bother you or anything! Am I bothering you right now? Oh god, I didn't even ask you that! I-"

The boy stops, seeing those orbs, a microscopic upturn of the mouth and a hand trying to calm him, whatever he was about to say sucked back into his lungs with much-needed oxygen.

"You're not bothering me, it's actually pretty nice to have some company." Her gaze wanders back to the fenced, barren land transiently before focusing back on the person in front of her. "...It's been so long."

She avoids answering his question and he doesn't fail to notice.

"You don't have anywhere else, do you?" Pink brows lower as he asks this, he sees the conflicted emotions race across her face but is shocked when the blonde smiles at him with drooping orbs so obviously sad.

"... I have everywhere." Maka offers this vague answer, aware that this boy, nothing but a cordial stranger, will have no clue what she means. So, without another word the blonde walks on, past Crona and back toward the end of the street, to escape this neighborhood into the heart of the city where she can sit and think, plan what to do with herself.

Footfalls trail her and she's relieved by this. So fucking relieved to finally have someone unafraid and willing to stay near her... Even if she doesn't really know who he is. The pig-tailed teen can't bring herself to burden Crona with herself and in truth, she cant bear to risk the shredded thread of remaining dignity to the whim of a stranger.

"M-M-Maka..." She stops but does not face him, waiting for the boy to continue. The girl can tell he's trying to steel his nerves for something and her stomach plummets at the thought of what he could possibly bring up. Maka isn't in the mood to tell her life story and is definitely not in any rush to delve into why it is how it is. When he doesn't answer after a long two minutes silence, she lifts a foot to tread on.

"Would you mind coming home with me?" The pinkette growls lightly in frustration over how that sounds, so immediately he attempts to correct himself. "I-I mean, I would like to know that you're safe and this place is scary with its crowds and cars and big buildings. You'd have to hide a little from the Doctor whom oversees me but she rarely comes into my room anymore and I'm always alone and I like being around you and -"

He can't see but she closes her eyes, a palm lifts to her chest and grips the shirt laying at it, its buttons dig dents into her fingers as her head falls.

"Please don't be sad. I didn't mean to make you sad!"

"I can't do that to you." Her whisper cuts through the pinkette almost as precise as one of Doctor Medusa's scalpels. "I can't impose myself. I'm a burden and you shouldn't worry about someone as filthy as me..."

"... I want to." Her head snaps up and she whirls around, evergreen wide and beseeching honest pale azure, halo'd by the late day burnt orange sun and hair like a blooming pastel rose. Like an ethereal being draped in black silk, his angelic face is unwavering in its resolve, so sure to keep her at his side and make sure she stays safe. It pulls at her heart, so cold for so long and warms it as if being physically caressed by a gentle flame.

"..." Maka is speechless. Should she accept? She just met this guy! That would be crazy, not to mention he did say that she would have to hide. Does she have the right to even be considering this? No... She can't... But can she really reject him when he's looking at her like that?

No.

She says nothing, spinning on her heel. Her day-kissed legs swing in a blur as the rocks roll beneath her beloved named shoes and the stop sign comes and passes. The blonde's heart is beating a mile a minute and her skin burns a deep scarlet from the tips of her ears to the dip in her chest. 

O.O.O

Maka peeks into the night-drenched park beyond the cool jet iron bars. It's dark colors are the only inhabitants, no life beyond that of plants and the various creatures that inhabit branches of trees whose leaves click against one another in an applause meant only for the arrival of calming breezes that sweep away the heat of daylight.

Relieved by the lone state of this place of fun, deserted in way for sleep of city citizens, she enters with the low whine of iron and crunching of grass at the rubber adorning her feet making way to the place she's made her own, the wind flips her tails as it frollicks through her path beneath the peeking stars in a fathomless sky.

Today has been... quite a day. So mixed were her emotions at any one point that Maka can't give a direct feeling toward this date, but she's in a good mood, smiling inspite of being alone without a house to go back to or her past comrades to call. Just him and her memories, herself and the roots of this guardian tree by the creaking swinset in the middle of this park.

Crona. She walked him to his gate just a while ago promising she would think about his offer. He had smiled at her, and by god she nearly lost her resolve. So, she took another walk around a single block to get her head on straight before coming back here and to avoid him seeing her duck in here.

Approaching the rough bark, with a single palm to steady as the teen slinks to the grass below, Maka snuggles into the tight angle to sit; to think, truthful to her promise.

He said a doctor oversees him. She would have to hide, so that pretty much says that he doesn't have the right to ask that of her. But, really, stealing time from recently vacated motel rooms isn't exactly legal nor is breaking and entering. The blonde unzips her bag, flipping through its collected contents as she searches absently for the bottle of water, though her tips grasp metal instead.

That's right. She doesn't deserve his concern and would only cause him trouble. What if that doctor recognized her, what would happen to Crona because of it?

These things that she has, surrounding her hands at this very moment, she took from others. Maka is a thief, selfish in her own vain attempts to sustain a life that no one wants around. She'd be better off non-existant. There would be no debt to worry about, the headaches and sunburn would cease, she wouldn't be considering something that could very well end up with that nice boy in quarantine.

He doesn't know about her and she hasn't told him because his presence was so refreshing. What are all the people that saw him with her going to think? What will they do to that boy with the angel-face and eyes like a brilliant morning sky? Will they bully him? Ostracize him? Throw rocks at him like that group of pricks did to her?

What has she done?

Maka is shaking fiercely, eyes strained as her lungs work in a rapid aching rhythm. Her digits are numb as they grasp the stained metal making jagged incomprehensible designs at the torn flesh of the underside of her wrist. A warm drizzle of web-like red runs down the length of her forearm, its journey meeting end in a pool between her crossed legs.

The salt of her tears sting the skin of her face as it soaks, dropping leisurely into the small pond and diluting it, but the pain in the girl's cheeks tell her she's smiling, laughing even.

Another grisly slice for her crimes, her filth, her nerve.

And another for the problems she causes for others, for the people she's wronged.

And many fast, shallow gashes for her Momma and Papa, because she was born. Had that never happened, they wouldn't have had to stay together. Spirit could be a man-slut and Kami could have found a good life with someone else.

Maka hears something beyond the thundering rush of blood in her ears, but pays it no mind as she weakly traces over the smallest cuts with the thin blade digging deeper. Because it's not enough... It could never and would never be enough. It is impossible to pay for her sins, no matter how often it's written upon her body. She keeps trying, through spotted blurring vision blinding her with every lightening-strike flash that pulses at her sockets, taking her into an abrupt oblivion, with only one thing catching her ears before she's pulled into the overwhelming need to sleep.

"I can't tell if you love or hate yourself."

~O~O~O~

He's been sitting upon the rocks since she left, too content with her answer to go back into that cold room full of nothing but silence and bright lights. No. The sun has drifted beyond the horizon in rich colors and he watched as the blanket of darkness spread onto the heavens, little stars burning brightly just to be seen first among the billions up there.

'Come home wif' meh bebehhh!' That voice taunts, but Crona only smiles in turn letting his forehead rest at the grains of the fence, the rocks under him no longer bothering the pinkette. 'Ah'll treatcha reeeeaaalllll goooooood!' It laughs in a haunting bark, echoing off the dome of the boy's skull.

There's a noise at the swing-gate to the park that stirs the teen and he peeks through the slats to see what it could be, or rather, who it could be. Maybe Maka has come back, he knows she frequents that place... He's been watching her come back time after time, after all. Sure enough, there she is. Every practiced step swaying her skirt and taking her deeper into that darkened play-wonderland.

Crona jerks to a stand, the stones gritting and clunking against one another in his wake, but he falters in decision. What if she doesn't want to see him? Is she sick of seeing him? The winning vote, however, is the many instances where he heard her mention being alone in that saddened, lost voice playing through his memories of the day.

The rose-haired boy no longer stalls and by the grace of the beauty, Maka, and her gift of flip-flops, he speeds over those jagged rocks without injury, to the latch of his own gate, sloppily flipping it unlocked and swinging the barrier open to traipse into the city. The sidewalks lack people on all sides and the streets have only the occasional car to and fro, so he continues without fret, rounding the corner and crossing the road, heading straight to the wrought iron bars and the park that lay behind it.

The teen fumbles only slightly when the entrance catches, but is careful with it, gently allowing it closure with the help of a few lanky fingers. In leisurely strides, grass itchy and irritating against the boy's ankles, he can see the tree and the girl at its base, can hear her giggles and that delicate form shaking from the power of them.

Moving nearer, Crona can make out the furious movement of her one limb as it comes down upon the other, painted in something darker than the tan of her skin.

Even closer still, curiosity and horror hold his breath hostage as he watches his story's heroine rip into herself. Her life's essence making her arm look like a map, its rivers pouring onto the ground and wasting her into the earth. It reminds him of his mother, the thought freezes him in his tracks with flashbacks of his own blood, black as the atmosphere overhead, clouding his mind and Maka's cackles making him heady.

He doesn't know why his is inky and her's is not. He doesn't know why she would do this to herself, cutting open that soft-looking skin making it ugly and torn. He doesn't know why she is laughing.

WHY IS SHE LAUGHING?!

A wandering palm makes its way to his own mouth and it startles him because he's giggling right alone with this girl as she punishes her unrecognizable appendage with lazy draws, half missing their mark. The girl's face glistens, flaxen locks once dry now stick along her cheekbones and at her jaw as her head bobs unsupported.

"I can't tell if you love or hate yourself." Absently, Crona mumbles in a flat tone, foreign to even his own ears. How does someone feel when they do these things? Is this normal?

Love is pain, so causing it to yourself means that you love yourself, right? But, if a person causes so much pain that that person dies, that's hate, right? Was that what Maka was trying to do? Or was she trying to stop the pain only by causing more? A new roll of laughter burns in the pinkette's throat, but when Maka falls, body painfully sprawled limply over the large roots, it dies immediately.

"MAKA!" He races to her side, the unconscious girl's name coming from this frantic boy at higher and higher volumes as he tries desperately to get her attention, to wake her up and make sure that she's okay. She has to be okay.

'She's bleeding too much.' Whether it was his own thought or the entity, he's not sure. His own yells are far too loud to decipher. How does he stop it, to make her better without hurting her further? How can he be of any use without touching her?

Crona knows that he can't, but his body won't move. He's so afraid, and the fear is so deep it has him trapped in time, where he's being sliced open and toyed with by his mother's own hand, a mess like the scene before him. He doesn't want to touch her. He doesn't want to hurt her.

'She'll die.' Oh god. He knows that's the truth, but what is he supposed to do? Didn't she want this? Didn't she do this to herself?

'Can you watch your bitch die?!' The Ragnarok phantom timbre screams this question within him and he finds his answer when his feet pound against the lawn with a speed he never knew he had, he falls to his knees and gathers her flaccid body in his thin arms.

'Stop the blood.' He knows how to do this, he's done it for himself whenever his stitches would pop in his childhood. A hand wraps around the most severe of the damage, squeezing as hard as possible. He prays this will help, that it will work until her body can form some sort of clot and repair itself. Crona prays that he can keep his grip until this is over, with her brilliant emerald orbs looking at him with that dazzling light like they did just earlier today. He prays that he doesn't fail her as he failed that family.

~O~O~O~

Another long shift, another satisfying day if Doctor Franken Stein has anything to say about it. And he does, because he is. Any twenty-four hour period in which is filled with squishing organs, draining blood, latex gloves and being elbow deep in your best friend should constitute as being... Awesome.

And tonight will be his turn. Medusa's nimble little finger's will poke and prod at his most sensitive, most erogenous of areas. Oh how slowly does his car come into sight and keys shake in joyfully anxious hands when he goes to unlock it. This lust, this need, this excitement!

The sleek car's engine roars to life with a simple flick of the wrist, belt in place, Stein shifts gears and sets off to navigate the mostly empty parking lot, into the darkened city speckled with automatic luminescence and the obligatory greens, yellows and reds. Life has certainly been a long road for Meddy and him, hasn't it? His captor, the stop-light, changes to go-green and he lets his mind drift with the wind out of the window he rolls down... It has certainly been quite the journey so far.

o.o.o

_It's been one long day and quite the eventful night, thusly._

_Franken shifts in his seat as Alphonse Stein navigates the winding city streets. The liquor on the man's breath is intoxicating in such close proximity, and the boy feels nauseous staring out at the passing lights. He looks down at his hands, clasped firmly in his lap._

_"That bitch!" The elder Stein manages to growl out, "She had it coming!" _

_He bangs his fist against the wheel, swerving the car nearly into a ditch as a result. But, Franken is used to it, he doesn't flinch, doesn't say a word as the man slurs on in rage. It would be unwise to do so, diverting the drunkard's anger onto himself._

_"I knew she'd come crawling back. It's for the money, always for the fucking money!" His raucous, bitter laughter is enough to pull the boy's attention, little Franken's steel-sage eyes fight desperately to focus on his father's from behind smudged lenses as the lights passing by flash and blur in the background._

_"But her little boy toy didn't like that. Noooooo," He hiccups, "No, not at all! Now the bastard is rotting in jail, and you know what I still have? Do you, My boy?" Alphonse gives him a wobbly half-lidded smile, his orbs glassy and off the road. _

_Franken shakes his head viciously in reply, hoping that the man will be appeased and return his attention to the road ahead. He hates this, but, it's nothing new. Franken's pulse speeds, but his breathing remains deep, calm. The man just grunts and jerks the wheel, the car pulling somewhat back into it's own lane._

_"I have my money and my smart, prick of a kid!" He chuckles and burps. "It's cause for celebratin'! The bitch is dead and I'm free of her money grubbin'!"_

_Franken's platinum brows furrow at this. His mother was always there for him, she was the reason he would smile. With every hit he took, she'd hug and reassure him. With every blow she got, the willowy blonde gave him a smile. Now... Now, she is really gone. Not for an hour, not for a day, not for work and not for sleep. She's dead. He will never have her warm comfort or her soothing words. Never again._

_He won't cry. He's had that beaten out of him since he was a toddler, a lesson far past learnt. No, he will just stare, only letting the emotion etch lines in his small rounded face._

_"Besides, you're gonna have a new momma! Cheer up, boy!" Alphonse growls the last at the boy, through drunk-glazed slits, "She's got her own money and's one hell of a piece of ass!" He laughs again, hiccuping halfway through._

_Suddenly he sharply turns the wheel, the tires and brakes squeal in protest and a mailbox thunks along the fender, not surviving the impact._

_Large houses line the street on either side, each getting bigger the farther they drive. The boy is thankful that his father slowed as they drive on._

_They pull into a circular driveway, in front of a lit multiple-story colonial. The engine dies, Alphonse fumbles with the door handle and stumbles out of the car. Franken follows suit, allowing his father to lead the way._

_He has no other choice, no home to go back to. This smelly man sold it and everything they owned. He has to live with a woman he's never met. Franken already knows that she will never be 'his new momma.' Never._

o.o.o

_"What's wrong with your child, Alphonse?" Pretty, deep crimson painted lips carefully form around each syllable, caressing every sound that passes in elegant, precise pronunciation. Her rich brown locks flow over sculpted shoulders and she tucks a few stray tresses behind her ears as she leans closer to the elder Stein's, pressing obviously fake endowments against the man's chest from her perch in his lap. "I'm certain he hasn't eaten nor spoken since the both of you arrived."_

_"Don't worry about the stupid boy, Ceto. If he wants to eat, he'll do it. If he wants to be a fucking mute, I guess he'll do that, too." Smoke tinged teeth clamp lightly upon the woman's pale skin, his hot breath puffing on the length of Ceto's neck as the rasps leave him as if it were all a joke. "Saves us from smart-assed backtalk, don't you agree?" She let's out a merry little trill in response, glad to drop the act so painstakingly forced. _

_"Yes, sir~." Drawling into a purr, she burrow's deeper into the man's bulky embrace, rolling her hips to stir friction along her lively seat. "Let's not speak of the children, there are more enthralling matters at hand, yes?"_

_Something clanks then thuds thickly against the table's surface, pulling the two's attention from one another. Sets of grey and gold shoot toward the jarring sound, meeting a pinched face and dark features._

_"I will take this as my cue and leave you to your own entertainment, Mother...Father." Inflect on the latter, Arachne twitches out a pursed, sarcastically disgusted grin. "May I be excused?"_

_The young teen loses their attention as the parents once again abandon the dining table company in favor of tasting each other. With a bored wave of a hand, the elder Stein pokes out a slobber-ridden tongue, lapping messily along Ceto's softly curved jaw as she laughs some more, the sound tinkling through the stiff atmosphere while she gracefully wriggles away from the dog-like affections._

_"At this moment, we don't exist." Short blonde tresses sway as the child turns her head, a sigh on small pink lips. A scanty frown lines them as she takes in her silent companion, a seat over, the second head of table. Scrupulously constricted gold studies the boy, how his angular face stands blank, how dull those dusty green eyes stare unblinkingly at the scene before them both, the slurps, giggles, and growls nothing but muffled background static to Medusa's ears. Franken's platinum, almost white, fringe providing an unserviceable curtain to the show just ahead. But, the girl can tell, he's not watching them, can't even see them... He's far away from this place, this time entire, caught in his mind and his body is acting only out of necessity... Barely._

_It's unsettling. This child seems so stiff and empty, nothing but a closed husk hiding the mystery of a hollow core. And yet, the girl smiles, a knowing simper far to advanced for her age. Decidedly, the spike-tipped blonde grabs at the unused, chill silvery spoon, steadying it between thin fingers and scoops a small helping of the rich pate, licking the cold lip of the flatware in order to tidy it. There is no use to make a mess out of her actions, her little side experiment. This could be promising, or a waste of time. But, that is of no matter as this hypothesis screams to be validated, or clarified and she has nothing but time._

_Would he react? Would he stay still, trapped in whatever on-going mental torment his mind keeps playing for him? There is only one way to tell. Medusa's excitement mounts as she nears his set mouth, she pulls her lip between straight pearls, the girl's digits jitter around the metal flatware. Making contact with pliable maw she slides the rounded basin down, it's contents sticking dutifully to the curve as his lip slides to an unaccompanied open allowing her to softly pry at slightly parted teeth and tuck the food away onto his tongue, that unused muscle._

_Her orbs dart from the boy's mouth to watch his face as it blinks in rapid succession, startled, snapped from it's reprieve from the present. Franken's lips shut tight and he breathes in as if pulling his first breath from a long siege beneath the surface of water. And, he sputters, choking on the savory paste melted upon his tongue, features twisting into scrunched lines disgust and contempt._

_"Ugh!" A grunt of dissatisfaction seems to bubble from his very gut, beige coated pink dips in and out of that once stationary mouth as he tries to rid it of the pate. "Wh-What...?!"_

_She has to bite back the piqued giggle, experiencing his comically disturbed experience, but she puts down the spoon, placing a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. He still hasn't recovered, once blank expression now pinched in utter revulsion as he searches his surroundings with a thick frown and utterly lost orbs. When they land on her, she can see the confusion in them, the sadness, the spite... She can see the need, and with that, the blonde smiles, giving his tense shoulder a squeeze, her other hand reaching out to offer the reclaimed boy a glass of water, because she can't blame him. Pate isn't exactly her favorite either._

_"Hello, Franken... Here."_

o.o.o

_"You see that ring on your finger, you filthy slut?" Nearly shaking the walls, Alphonse's deep, foreboding timbre nearly shakes the door from it's hinges, it rattles, protesting it's vain job to provide privacy to the quarreling couple. "I own you, the papers, your last name, your fucking body! What right do you have to deny me what's mine?!" The woman only whimpers in response to heavy sounding thuds that reign down with each barked word._

_This is nothing new to Medusa, and she passes the closed-off room, unphased. Beside her, though, the platinum-haired boy pauses in step, no longer following._

_"What's the matter?" Turning, she queries boredly, gold orbs secretly rolling behind closed lids before facing Franken._

_"Should w-we do some-" A flat palm halts any more words from him, and she sighs, looking down the slight spiraling of the stairs._

_"It's not wise to interfere." The suspended hand drops, grasping the boy's clammy palm, pulling him tenderly along. "It's never done any good."_

_"What do you mean, 'never'?" Surprise coating the bespectacled boy's voice, dim-sage searches the back of Medusa's form for any obvious unspoken answers, coming up empty aside from the slight fall in her unfailingly straight posture._

_"...She would just bring him back, drop all charges and bring an infuriated man back into this house to take his temper out on us. All of us." The blonde unknowingly squeezes his hand so tightly that his tips turn an unhealthy shade of purple and the joints grate on each other, though, he doesn't say anything and just mimics her quickening pace._

_"... And she would laugh. Mother would say it's what we deserve for being such bad children, trying to hurt our 'daddy'. For trying to send him away." The stairs are coming and going with rapid bouncing steps as the grand wall-furnishings pass as a wave of burgundy and royal blue upon a whizzing shore of sandy tan. "I can't do that, I can't do it again. I can't."_

_Those whispers hit his ears like some sort of chanted mantra, making far too much sense, yet raising more questions that he's not sure he really wants answers to. But his heart, void of warmth for so long, tugs at this, the kinship sparking a sort of flame, and yes, he agrees, she can't. It's better that woman than all of them, especially if that is the way that this mother 'protects' her children._

_Blindly, he continues on behind the fleeting form of the girl, with only the firm grasp on his hand and the air-conditioned chill at his face to remind Franken of where he really is, as his memories tug on that warm smile and form of the woman that used to shield him from the worst of his own father's fierce blows._

O.O.O

"Well, that was quick." Franken pulls into the drive, parking his vehicle and running antsy jittery fingers through his wind-tossed hair, ready to see her again. It's that time again and he will enjoy every minute with Medusa.

_**A/N: My chapters are getting short again... I'm sorry! I like meaty chapters, myself, so... Yeah. But, this seemed like a good stop point. :) Thank you all for the reviews, faves and follows! You lovely people make my heart happy!**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people.

_**A/N:**__ I am so sorry. Lol. You'll see why in a bit... but just know that it is all for your raw understanding of character dynamic... Oh god, so sorry. So very, very sorry! ::Runs and hides from incoming torches and pitchforks::_  
_Um, also, Orgy-Stiches totally reminds me of the Stein/Medusa thing I have going on here... Yeah... I totally don't own that either. Heh._

**Chapter 7:**

_Fondly, Medusa's wide sunny orbs take in the clear liquid, swirling in it's syrupy whirlpool inside the glass. Hundreds of thousands of reversed microbiological bacterium and viral impurities transposed within such a small container. The thick, water-like substance is, in itself, a miracle to behold, created by such a heinously young mind. A bright mind, not hindered by the pressing of society and the rush of adulthood. A brain put to dedicated use, without the restrictions of ethics and deadlines, thoughts and ideas unbridled by overseers and the need to impress. No, the only person needing that satisfactory thrill is that of the creator, this blonde child with textbooks and a fond inclination toward the medical sciences, driven by the things in which she doesn't want to speak. Only, to cure._

_No, when her work is at it's full completion, no one will ever have to fall prey to the frailty that is human life. NO, when she is done, the world will be a better place, brighter, happier, with less violence and no threat of disease. Because, how will the world go to war with itself when all are immune, strong beyond the density of bone and the squishy liabilities that are entrails, that damnably sad sort of an excuse flesh and fat make as armor against those that wish to destroy it all._

_No. When all is said and done, there will be peace. Her own children will be able to live in a world without fear of their body, of coming to an untimely end. Their children will never have to watch from a filth-ridden dumpster in frantic hush as their parent is disemboweled and organs are used as pitching practice by some drugged-out sociopath with a knife and the want and will to kill anything just to watch that light flicker from another's body, fading into the never-more. Like her father, the real one, before the long line of beat-happy men pounding in a successive line through her mother's shock-induced, traumatized, hole-gaped heart in the form of open legs and empty love._

_"No." Lips curling around the whispered sound, she carefully places the vial back into the deep-freezer, pulling from her amazement-trembling hands the clean latex gloves, tucking the cold palms to her heat-flushed face. No, because when she is absolutely done, there will be no injury, no real sickness or premature necrosis. When she's done, she will have bumped up evolution with the very light of her microscope and these used-tools she bought on a bargain with her own hacked trust fund._

_First thing is first, though. She will need to test on live subjects, will need to tweak her dosages and find the right time-frame to apply. The girl will need more than just the thousands of animals that sacrificed their lives for the greater good, more data, more variables. Medusa will need to figure out more than just the serum, this vaccine that will block most diseases and illnesses. She needs to work on protection. How does one keep another from being cut down? Would it be in the blood, those tiny inter-connected roadways mapping throughout every inch of anatomy from deep inside out, or in the skin, the barrier above all? Both? Questions, questions... Questions that will have answers, in time. _

_From the second floor, Medusa's ears perk at the banging upon the front door, so clamorously loud, unruly. Familiar. Another man, she supposes. Sniffling away her momentary fear, the child closes her eyes, thinking back to those warm hugs, that kindly laughing face of her father, the real one, in order to steel herself for the harsh reality of the rest of the world and it's volatile inhabitants that are mankind. Her mother has made a deep bed full of unwavering denial and masochism in order to feel something other than the hollowness that Medusa and Arachne's father's loss chiseled within her. The blonde girl will not make the mistake of helping someone that doesn't want to be helped and she most certainly will not let her mother's men touch her like that ever again. _

_"Alphonse, darling!" Once again, amber eyes focus on the world around as her mother's shriek echoes hauntingly through the house, breaking away the girl's daydream in place of impassive resolve. Pressing on her small workspace to help still shaky knees, she respirates meticulously, building her walls and strengthening emotional defenses against yet another unhealthy relation that must be endured._

O.O.O

DIIIING DONG~!

Ringing only throughout their workroom, the doorbell sounds for maybe the third(... or fourth) time. Its chime vaguely registers, breaking through her reminiscing thoughts like a hammer upon glass, shattering what once was into what is in an instant and her lithe hands push from the cool, transparent surface, removing her from the seat and on to her bare feet.

They pad across the smooth, off-white floor, its reflection of the lights above only eclipsed by her gliding form as she opens the old-style door with a simple turn of a key and pull that showers the braided blonde in the sharp contrast of shadow to her immediate front and the effulgence that lay behind.

Golden eyes adjust quickly, that door creaking to a slivered close, a singular beam from its crack follows Medusa as each raised step brings the doctor closer to the top of the narrow stair. The dinging alert sounds once more, muffled by the wood of the passed barrier and she smiles amused at her visitor's zeal. A wandering palm slides along the uneven design of the wall's plaster, her soles working up the wooden stairs with a graceful speed.

Birthed from darkness back into fluorescent glow, the walking woman rounds the immediate corner through her art parlor and straight to the large front door. Little effort is needed to flip the locks and welcome the guest into her home, as this is a routine. A lovely annual task that has graced her calendar since that first inaugural transaction.

"G'devening Meddy." Platinum grey tousling flippantly with the warm evening breeze frame those granite jade orbs and glass that reflects her own silhouette. This blessed, overly-familiar man grins at Medusa with a wink that almost makes her laugh.

"Hello, you." Shifting to stand behind the door, she lets Franken shuffle into their chilly abode, only just closing the door before her arms snake round his neck and legs wrap possessively at his willing waist.

He knows where he is going. He doesn't need to see where his legs are taking them as his pliant lips suck those lovely gasps from this woman, tongue laving ever-so lightly at feverish flesh, surgeon's thumbs rubbing circles precisely where she likes while the other digits play support.

When Stein stops, she slides from his grasp, her soft curves teasing his clothed chest until she pulls away, tip toes taking her backwards and down, those smoldering half-lidded amber orbs calling the man to the calignosity like a siren to a ship's certain destruction upon the sea. He follows without qualm, he wants to sink, to slip into those waters and drown.

The darkness hides her visage from view, but those skilled hands run, blazing trails along his skin, it is a wonder that his clothes aren't cinder by now as those small digits graze every inch from all sides. And when he feels that skilled little mouth press at his pants, that promise of wet heat and the hot breath that blows through to tease him makes his desire throb in quickened pulses.

Just as soon as it's there, it's gone again and he's being pulled down further with a tug of his bunched up shirt and a palm massaging his shaft through the fabric and the greyed man happily obliges, one stride after another until solid flat flooring graces the rubber soles of his shoes.

The air feels so much colder along his hot flesh, it feels so good; even better still when the blonde leans into her actions, her other hand slithering to move away the damnably thick cloth of his lab coat and Medusa's hot breath huffs at his trachea, her covered nipples tickle at his chest making want circulate in a dizzying tingle through his veins.

Her teeth drag openly on his neck, catching at stubble, that humid little cavern creating torrid sensitivity that fades out as atmosphere sets freeze into the slickness. She makes it difficult to breathe, this confusing mix of sensations culminating into a delicious orchestra of thundering desire that catches his respiration in helpless shuddering spurts.

Strokes fading into nothing, Franken voices protest only in a whining sigh, too weak to say much else but her tongue finds his lobe and a throaty 'shh~' hushes him as it raises the surface along his carotid with goosebumps, a shiver running through his limbs in waves euphoric intoxication. Cold is his body as she moves away, the places she touched lonely with only the memory of her feel wafting deep.

His hands move with her directions, a taunting game where only his tips can feel that silken skin and slinky material that barely covers it all, from the enticing dip of Medusa's collarbone to the exquisitely puckered center of her breasts. That downy hanging fabric causes friction to titillate every manipulated digit, the way she holds back her own frustrated pants drives his mind wild.

It's only moments when he realizes that she has set his hands free to roam that he falters, so much does he want to feel and not a certain place to start. Vibrations along his zipper pauses his own thought processes and he completely blanks when his heated manhood is removed from its constrictive confines, chill encompassing it in the most exciting of ways. The hiss escapes his lazy lips before he can stop it.

"No sounds!" The blonde forcefully whispers as she slaps at his attentive member, a grin in her voice and amusement apparent in her enthusiasm. Her palm connects hard, the smack of skin on skin jolting to the ears. He groans at the sting, making his sensitive head throb harder with every successive blow. Franken's knees nearly buckle when Medusa's seventh and last belt lands, the cries of pleasurable-pain dancing captive in his chest, obediently unreleased.

The braided blonde limply raises the front folds of her dress, it bunches at her back and curves in on itself as it hangs in her hand. An arched foot rubs along his ankle to the bend of his knee, her pampered toes digging into that vulnerable spot and it takes him down in height. That skilled leg slides further up and to the greyed man's waist, hooking and he takes the incentive, sweating, shaking hands gripping the tender, supple thigh.

Tendrils of cloth mold and fall over the ridges of his arousal, petting at the swollen member with its soft hem-line as her core hovers so near, the unfettered juncture fills him with the scent of her molten arousal; the sweet vanilla of her ivory flesh, the musk of her womanhood, the heady antiseptics, its so hard to stand, so difficult not to plunge into Medusa, to complete them both.

Downy fabric sways along the silken steel of his erection, catching at his ridge and falling to frictious tickles rippling at his end's slit and she pulls ever closer, that cloth lifting and draping back at his base. His cock barely runs along her slick lips, her pulsing little nub teasing with her own concealed need. He gasps at the feel of her and she retreats, her dress playing its little game once more as her hand rears back and delivers his harsh punishment.

"I said to be quiet." The woman growls out her warning as once more that dress vacates his member and her folds wet his member, a cruel show of both what may come and what he can't have quite yet.

Cheek burning, the blonde gives it a loving rub before once more dominating Franken's free hand. Her dress skimming his arousal, she directs him to hers, using him to create delicious attrition for her own wants. A selfish goal that she silently laughs at as he shivers in absolute need.

His digits flex and extend against her hungry core and she moans into her own shoulder. When he delves into her tight, hot little sex, her hips roll, accepting as much as he will give with a feverish tenacity. Pumping curved fingers, he strokes at the woman's clenching inner walls, searching for that smooth flesh that will make her a cursing, quivering mess; to conquer and domineer Medusa's sensations in the only way his subservience will allow.

The desire that races through his veins and throbs in his gently tortured arousal hurts, engorged at its brink, that damned silkened fabric drives him mad. His dexterous hands translate his necessity into an intensity when he reaches his long-sought goal. Plunging into her warmth and pulling out, twisting his twittering digits and hitting that condemning spot, over and over; again and again.

The blonde stiffens, grip on her own dress so tight as her leg squeezes Stein's body closer. Tension and heat building so rapidly she can't move, her mouth hangs open decorating the lines of bliss crinkling her brow.

More. He gives her more speed, more pressure, more fire that tips her facade of collected mewls off the edge and into a free-fall of gasping screams as that dam breaks and the waves of unbridled sensual solace wash over her from curling toes to lolled head.

Still panting, the braided blonde wrenches from bespectacled man, dropping the folds of her night-like dress as her palm connects to his still stinging cheek.

"Knees!" Fingers still wet with her nectar, he complies, forcing back the lopsided grin painting his face to something suitable for the light. It's rough, the staircase and landing don't leave much room in which to maneuver, but the submissive manages, feet lifted upon the first two steps with his arms to support in front, his shaft jutting proudly through the gap at his fly. Vulnerable as she likes him.

"Go." A whine of metal and wood takes the two from inky black and into a bath of blinding brilliance that the greyed man has to squint at to accustom himself to before scuttling on ahead at Medusa's command. The hard floor is hell on his joints, but Franken makes it to the center of their rooms at the foot of the brushed steel table and waits as the door closes and locks; the scraping of the key sending shivers to his curved spine.

Downward jade orbs take in the feet coming his way, but he sits, quiet and good, even when he sees her stop in front of him and hears the shuffling of something above. Something that snaps when pulled, like rubber, or latex; his heart beats swiftly behind his ribs, a giggle burning for its release that he will not give.

The blonde snaps, pointing skyward and he raises, palms leaving the icy marble. Golden eyes take him in as she lowers, planting a soft kiss onto his lips, nipping the bottom with her teeth she pulls until it pops from its hold. A solitary blue glove is in her grasp and with it she rubs the elastic material from tip to base, enjoying his squirms as the thin, sensitive skin pinches with its resistance.

His slit is beaded with obvious liquid excitement, it pains him that he is so hard and he realizes what she is doing with that glove when she ties it in a crippling knot around his shaft, he has to bite back a panicked cry. Oh god, its so tight that he visibly throbs, painted dark red with the pressure deepening his vicious arousal's sensitivity. And when she blows at him, a self-satisfied little puff from her pursed, smirking little mouth, he moans, unable to contain it any longer.

"Undress me." He knows that she means to do it by mouth with limited use of his hands and he pants, trying not to thrust his hips into the small breezes she creates as she stands at her full stature and he bends to capture that damned hem that teased him in his huffing maw. He makes sure to run his docile labrum against the curve of her thigh, whispering over that ambrosial mound and upward, past her navel and to the juncture between her swollen breasts where he is finally allowed to use his hands to rid her of her clothes.

The light fabric tickles as it dances up raised arms and over her ears. He's so gentle with the woman, so tender with her, especially during these games they play. She grows warmer with the thought, but only lifts a brow at the man before her.

Done with his task, he tries to go back to his sit to await more of her husky words but Medusa slides behind, freezing him into place with those soft palms at his chest and those elegant little digits slipping button after button from their holes. He would plead if he had to, just to feel that velvety touch on his burning flesh, his stomach flexing in hopeful anticipation that makes his manhood palpitate.

Braid thrown over her shoulder with a simple brush, she leisurely traces each of Franken's abs through his shirt, each dip a road to travel, every swell a hill to run over, down and down. When her tips meet the hard, cold brass of his buckle she unloops the leather of his belt, pulling it from its trappings and setting the lovely black thing aside to finish stripping him of his trousers and underthings.

Those slacks drop heavily with naught but a single pull of their hook and her amber orbs brighten with his sob as the notches in his zipper scrape at his engorged affliction. Swiftly, she kicks the back of her pet's leg, sending him to the shining surface, startled, hands shakily saving him from impact.

No good. She straddles his back and yanks a handful of white-grey hair so that he has no choice but to stare at the fluorescent bulbs above.

"I want your chest to the ground, you defiant thing." She snarls in his ear before forcefully pushing away his scalp, removing herself from his back as he drops and the blonde circles him to inspect her work. The perfect forty-five degrees from the base of his skull to the elevated tailbone unsatisfactorily hidden by those ridiculous tri-tone boxers.

An irritated pull at his underwear forcibly jolts his stiffened shaft, the waistband catches at the delicate end gland in a way that electrifies every nerve in his body. Stein bites back the yelp, gritting his teeth until they grind.

That hoarse laugh bubbles from behind and he nearly faints from the thrill. This humiliating position leaves nothing to the imagination, all areas hidden day by day are lit by the bulbs above and he is helpless as his puckered anus and testicles lay on display. Heart skipping beats and breath puffing from his nose like a bull on rage, he lifts his back tailbone that much more, into the pillowy feel of her downy, mild hands as she rubs at his susceptible cheeks.

The leather whistles as it cuts through the air, the narrow belt bites at his milky skin, instantly welting up in angry pink when it makes slapping, solid contact that rocks him forward in slight and jumbles his stiffened, suffocated erection in ways that makes his stomach clench. His mistress leaves it there a a few seconds, the heat of the punitive cincture against the blazing of his buttocks almost unbearable, until his lady flips the band on its side, the margin creating large circles on the crimson streak, much like scraping a sunburn with fingernails.

And then, it's gone, replaced with the frozen air. A moment of solace, as she pulls the leather above her head, only for it to scream warning to the bespectacled man of its downward descent. His whole body stiffens as it connects and leaves to connect again, and again. The brutal contusions decorate the backs of his thighs, straight across and in some instances wrapped 'round a leg and hanging sack. He isn't breathing, but his body is protesting in wriggles that nearly paralyze him, his protruding manhood like an over-filled balloon, everything a possible irritation, and so sensitive, oh so delicate.

When she stops and the buckle chinks against the stone of the floor, his cheeks and forehead are a shade of violet new to the color spectrum and his open backside burns against the atmosphere's soothing chill.

"Aww! Was that too much for my little pet?" The blonde coos when he gulps in oxygen, strutting round once more, happy with this end result. That perfect pedicure stops in front of the man's nose, and he kisses the arches in his hushed appeal.

"Oh, you want something, boy?" Humming the question, she kneels, spreading only enough to slide a finger through her folds and bring it to his lips. He sucks on the finger greedily and Medusa chuckles, sitting so that her bent, long legs span either side of his achingly arched body, her womanhood just close enough to ravish if he stretches his neck painfully with his chin bruising against the unforgiving floor.

His tongue laps flat, gratefully. Those sweet purring moans echoing in his throbbing prick, feeding his starving need in the delicious form of sucks and licks. He slurps at her clit, breath stopped in surprise when he feels her downy palm squeeze at his tender head. It speeds him, makes his work frantic and sloppy, but the reaction he's hearing beyond the thundering in his ears and his own pressing frustration says that the blonde doesn't mind.

She grips in beats alike a heart, making his own pound visibly, shaking his lab-coat. He hasn't a set respirative pattern, and everything is a blur of sensation. Nothing is clear to his except the fact that he tastes, feels, sees and smells only Medusa. She is a maddening drug that he can't get enough of.

With a shriek, her legs shudder, closing in around him. Her fingers clasp around him blinding him and stealing his breath. He's shaking, hot, cold and clammy, sweat trails his forehead and gathers with the tears in his eyes.

That tension is so wound, that if it doesn't break soon, he will. The greyed man can't move even if he tried, as long as she has a hold of him, he is stuck. Her pallid, obedient living statue. Her pet. When he's released, he doesn't know whether he should sigh in relief or cry out in pent vexation.

"Take off your clothes." How did she get all the way across the room? When did he shut his eyes? He scrambles, trying to stand on legs that feel like jelly with a supportive grip on the metal slab at his side. Its near impossible to kick off his shoes when his head is both airy and lead, the flashes of bright black and floaters don't help much either but he manages to step from his clothes and shrug from the heavy torso coverings, glasses an nuisance afterthought. Falling back to his knees, he hisses at the accompanying bounce of his shaft, hanging his head, Franken slumps over to the blonde tapping her foot in impatience.

Finally at her side, she passes over the step and into the tiled alcove, steam already billowing from the wall's spray. Following Medusa is an effort, with tingling stings that prickle down his inner thighs to the soft underside of his feet every time he raised his knee the height of the step, but he manages with an aching jaw and grinding molars.

"Come over here and stand under the shower, darling. You've done well." A self-satisfied smile tugs at his pressed mouth at her praise and he stumbles over to the source of the steam, unused to his upright position. As the vapor wraps around him, that fall of hot water soaks his hair and cascades down flesh that seems cold in comparison, even though inside of this man is an inferno. His stomach flutters, that tension winding tighter with every stray drop and he closes his eyes, allowing the spray to beat into his body; to follow her every word.

A single startling suck brings all of his walls down, his testicles clinging to his body as they try to force his seed into the wet, fiery velvet surrounding his cock and yet, it doesn't happen because of the rubber wrapped 'round him. That dry orgasm almost knocked him to the ground with a reverberating, suffocating moan stuck in his chest, and his only savior was the shower-glistening woman knelt before him. Her knowing palms presses him into a lean against the cold ceramic squares before moving lower, nails dragging crimson lines into his rocky, pale abdominals and even further still to that damned blue rubber where she yanks the knot from its holding all the while her tongue rounds his ridge.

Throwing the offending glove to the corner of the small room, she lets her lips dance over his head, welling in overly-sensitized feeling, pins and needles introducing Stein to a new type of heaven when Medusa takes him all in, swallowing his length down into her throat. That multi-sided, soft yet strong heated silk tugs at him, it demands everything of him and with a strangled, croaking cry that pressures the backs of his eyes and navel, he spills into her in violent, quivering jolts that leave him momentarily blind putty. Sliding down the tile with the welts on his backside burning with the steamy rain, his still rigid member pops from Medusa's maw and he sits, slumped over and malleable.

"Let's begin with the basics, shall we?" Reaching over, fingers gripping around plastic and blade, she smiles.

~O~O~O~

The blood beneath the heel of his palm is sticky, Crona's glassy crystal gaze hasn't left the wound, for fear that he would mess up and it would start dripping again. His body trembles; in fear for her and that deep-seated terror within himself.

Seeing her like this, holding Maka as she lifelessly sags against him, it doesn't hurt him necessarily physically. But this, no, this ache in his chest is worse than most of the pain he's encountered.

His ears are strained, trying to hear beyond his own thundering heart and ragged breaths to make sure hers hasn't stopped. The rosette can't tell, even with her body pressed to his own. The boy is shaking so bad, every one of his nerves reduced to buzzing static focusing on the main processes: eyes to keep her injury at bay, the touch of his hand to keep it raised with enough pressure to stop the flow, his ears for that faint whisper of breath and his own respiration. That is all he is, that is all that he can do.

Crona can't lose his story's protagonist. It's not over yet. It can't be over yet. He hasn't been given enough words, the paragraphs ahead are still to blurred to be made out. Please.

Please. Please, please don't...

~O~O~O~

With steady, skilled grace Medusa guides the razor over the soapy man's torso. Quick, smooth flicks that eradicate all the stubborn, prickling little hairs from his chest now down to the last bit below his navel. That wiry line that leads to what makes him male, it protests against the sharp little shaver in clicks and pops until nothing is left as it washes down and around the screen drain.

She nudges the placid Stein's chin with a knuckle and with nimble fingers isolates the desired area just behind the man's temple, eliminating the hair in a narrow section and uncovering that familiar white scar.

"Rinse off, pet." Done with the hair removal, the blonde leans into Franken, claiming him with a kiss that drags him back from mindless bliss, the pinch of her teeth making him follow by way of reaction as she goes to stand.

His arms encircle Medusa's curved waist, pulling her soft body into his, heated rain trickling between them as they embrace. This gentle, tender emotion shared without word as the steam rolls from their flesh.

There is always risk involved, every time one goes under the knife. Franken being the initial subject, an ongoing experiment of multiple magnitudes... There is always that chance that his system shuts down, and at his age, all of his scar tissue...

Science is about hypothesis and in turn there is trial and error. Somewhere along the lines, it stopped being so cut and dry. Somewhere in their years of partnership, taking his life in her hands and bearing his children... It became real. Not a dream, not a nightmare. Reality.

A single boy to traipse into her life and let her take charge. One to be beaten and dominated, the opposite of the men her own mother whored herself out to. Her slick hands wrap around Stein's neck and head as she pulls him even closer, their forms radiating warmth from the shower's spray and each other. She rests her cheek at his heart, listens as it beats in a slow, calming rhythm and she closes her eyes, inhaling deep the cleansing vapors, exhaling in a lazy, ready draw.

"It's time, my loving brother." Her mouth forms a smile. She can't doubt her outcomes or her subject and gathering what she needs to add to their near-lifetime collection of data does still hold the same appealing excitement.

"After you, Meddy." He holds out his arm like a gentleman while his other hand shuts off the shower. The blonde twists the excess water from her locks, stepping just out of the shower-room to reach for crisp, clean towels.

Rubbing rogue droplets from her top, she bends to get her legs catching the greyed man's stare in the process. Quirking a brow, she finishes quickly, throwing the cloth over her shoulder.

"Does my dearest Franken want punishment?" The woman calls over her shoulder as she disappears behind a corner to adorn a fresh, form fitting lab coat and surgery smock.

His non-answer is answer enough. That scientist's glow back in those golden orbs as she detours from the table he's setting with pads and sheets, to look over the capsule anesthetics she's personally manufactured at her corner shelves. With a pop and rattle, she has his punishment in the palm of her hand.

Franken is already laying upon the prepped table by the time she turns back, naked feet padding on the cold ground. He's already stained with betadine and waiting. Her tools are organized atop her rolling tray and his clothes shoved into its underside basket.

"Open your mouth, darling... But no swallowing." Medusa warns with narrowed eyes, a spark of something making the peeking depths gleam as she tucks the pills beneath his tongue. "And since it seems you couldn't wait, you'll have to bear the pain until those bitter things dissolve."

"Should I secure you in the straps, pet?" Pulling more blue gloves from the box before swabbing herself with the disinfectant, she coos the question, knowing his response before he can speak it. She pulls the latex over her digits, a smirk tugging up. "Or... do you think you can handle it?"

His foggy jade orbs shine as he lays upon that table beneath those brilliant lights and sucks at the capsules with a smiling grimace. Those white-lashed lids are looking a bit heavy, so she reaches for her scalpel, the device beside it already recording as her patient tread takes the woman from the head of the table to the side.

With still, strict fingers the blade presses into the derma above a previous mark. A tonal hiss escapes the subject's lips but otherwise he doesn't tense, which makes it easier to follow that pale, puffed scar down and minutely beyond. Once to break that upper barrier, twice to push through that thin layer of yellow spongy fat, and three times to cut into muscle.

Thread-like ligaments connect the thick crimson tissue, there has been no change from this observation and the first, aside from normal growth and she notes as such matter-of-factly and flat, unsurprised. Quickly, the cutting instrument set upon the tray, she closes up her incisions, taking care to join his abdominals in their proper alignment before tying up the upper flesh in his preferred patterns.

The next is further up, deeper. Franken's brows are furrowed in the pain that she's causing and in the sour taste of those no-doubt slimy, absinthal pills. His lids are clenched shut, drowsiness setting in as the numbing agents gradually spread. A time-release formula that lets him feel her process, requested by him, no less.

Once more, the land of skin parts into a valley of fat and muscle that she studiously traverses with that sharp edge and prying eyes. That sinewy blanket of red, living tissue slops mutely as she holds it off to the side, monitoring the hidden sanguine, frosted cartilage and bone density of his ribs, slathered with a coat of tendons and meat. Behind the cage-like barrier, she also voices the lack of change, her curved needle and forceps piecing the man back together and wiping off the residual back-splash and smear with sanitary gauze.

Medusa peels the soiled latex from her person, solemn expression leaving her features blanked as she pads along toward her cabinets. Pulling from it what would seem to be a carpenter's tool box and placing it upon another mobile tray table she rolls from under the polished counter top.

Wheels creak in bursts and the metal instruments within rustle and clank together as that cold cart drags behind. Coming to a stop once more at the head of the operation surface, she lifts and flips the lid of the container to set up the tools, putting them in the order of use with their handles conveniently inclined on the tray's lip. One last dip into a small, sectioned, plush compartment and the blonde doctor raises from it a single vial, a hard-labored concoction of their cure-all serum with a touch of their son's inky plasma and a proven cocktail of synthetic testosterone, adrenaline, dopamine and serotonin, oxytocin and vasopressin. This tiny inch-long, eight-gauged, dissolvable tube contains a year's worth of chemical lust and obsession, loyalty; everything needed to keep this man by her side with a love of their work, their accomplishments... and her. She sets it aside for it's later necessity.

A cleansing breath, visor face-guard in place and a fresh coat of muddy golden betadine beneath sterile blue rubber and she lifts the powered-up bone saw from its place on the tray, whirring in its controlled, punishing rotation. The doctor brings it down in steady, practiced movements as the familiar zip of the scalp being cut sounds out followed by the indescribable scraping of skull and metal that resounds deeply, making her nerves dance frantically on end reminiscent nails on a chalkboard and tenfold in intensity.

... Until suddenly it stops and in turn, Medusa switches the machinery off swapping out with the curved spatulate and clamps. She's diligent, lifting and spreading, uncovering the last titanium plate she placed. Her work with the saw took care of its bone-cement trappings that held it and quick maneuvers with forceps remove it from the goal and into a sterile bath.

With conscientious irrigation and suction, she sees it. That walnut-sized device peeking demurely from the folds of Stein's diencephalon, each part of that adorable inter-brain housing her atomic, thread-like leads that has pumped her concoction into the root of this man throughout the years. A simple, flat-head screwdriver brings that open, empty slot into view and she slips her prepared vial into that crevice, closing it back up with the turn of that almost barbaric device. The curling, interconnecting matter around that angled edge pulses with every beat of his heart, pushing sanguine life through innumerable passes, a road-map of him that tints this delectable specimen a healthy, throbbing pink.

It is done with another year secured and semi-successful. She sighs, a syringe between her digits as she busies herself with the last touches. Drawing blood from Steins limp arm, she delivers it to a bowl with casting powder inside and empties it. The red mixes with the bright white in a compromise of something a shade more natural and within moments the titanium and bone are dried and coated with the goo. A perfect fit to the hole in Franken's head that Medusa paints with more of the cement as it dries, adding to it's strength.

It's a tedious process but the woman performs dutifully, artfully until complete when she can finally stitch him up once more.

~O~O~O~

It feels like hours have passed. Maybe minutes... Seconds? He doesn't know really but with the way Maka's breathing sounds -stronger, more impressionable, makes him think that it might be okay to move. His limbs are numb and stiff, like if Crona were to stay like this any longer, he may very well end up stuck like this.

She whimpers in his embrace, her lungs puffing the pitiful sound out in triple and the pinkette flinches at such a pained, airy whine.

Maybe her body aches like his own? The boy almost jumps at the thought, but catches himself before the action jumbles the blonde's injury.

He tries to twist, to lay her head upon the grass with one arm, while maintaining elevation for the other and it just doesn't work. His legs, his feet... None of them does as his mind demands. The silk of his robe gets caught by wayward forces: her bottom, his foot, her hip, his knee. He is pinned and it's a little discouraging.

The teen tries once more, a different tactic forming as he raises the hem of the black cloth, his joints shifting slightly one after the other so that The girl's body is supported against his chest and he can finally, freely kneel. Dropping the offending fabric, he uses the open palm to set her down, cradling her with all he can of his arm until nothing of her is touching but the drying slashes and sagging wrist.

Crona can feel them, each and every one. The grooves and their swollen edges, how differently spaced they are, how some of them run down two or three others, creating a gaping separation, but with enough pressure can be forced to seem whole again. This agony she caused upon herself in this place where he recently learned was a place for fun and laughter.

Why?

He doesn't have a clear answer and perhaps Maka doesn't have one, herself. All that he has is facts. Right now, it is a warm night with breezes that could pass for cool, if you really strain and above, the stars shine in speckles like that stuff he saw in a movie once -glitter upon an indigo canvas. It is silent aside from the static songs of insects and the rustling of the dry stalks and clicking leaves of the branches hanging taller than him.

No one is here but her and no one else is present but him. When his azure orbs see this for what it is, a fondness softens his features more. His body no longer shakes, already missing the girl's warmth even though he's relieved that the contact they share is limited.

Touching her was indeed terrifying, that hurt he felt, a hurt for fear of someone else... Unfortunately, is not new. The pit of his stomach still swirls and knots in nauseating uncertainty, Maka and Ragnarok factored in the like. What will become of this blonde? What's happened with Ragnarok?

The rosette still holds tightly to the sleeping girl's wrist, but lays beside her in the swaying grass, to watch over her. He wants her to be okay and most importantly, wants to be there when she wakes. That crimson stain between them only strengthening his resolve.

~O~O~O~

Tools cleaned, sanitizer sprayed, floor bleached, Franken covered with lines injected, freshly showered and dressed once more, Medusa closes the door and locks it behind her. He will be out for most of the day, tomorrow and the intravenous leads she placed should keep his fluids regulated enough so that he doesn't become acidotic or septic. But mostly, it's just there so that he doesn't dehydrate.

His procedure is complete, but her work is far from over. These night-time hours are some of the braided woman's most lively. Checking on her other patient, bringing food to Crona and inspecting his room's order. All in a day's work.

She swiftly climbs the dark stairs and meanders purposefully into the kitchen, brushed metal surface is fogging with the small tendrils of steam rising from a pot she left to slow cook. Butternut squash puree with a hint of mint oil and basil. The easy-to-digest entree made only slightly thicker, to ween the boy from his otherwise thin-liquid diet. Its a little late, but it is done.

She lifts the lid and turns the appliance off with the flick of her wrist, grabbing a bowl from the in-lain cabinetry above and setting it upon a metal serving tray. She scoops a hefty helping, setting a spoon atop a rectangular napkin and retrieves a pre-poured covered glass of apple juice from her large refrigerator.

It's not hard to navigate these floors, each room is open and uncluttered with the proper space for walking permitted. At the base of the tri-flight steps, she takes one at a time, correct posture granting her balance to carry the platter of food and drink without wobble or falter as she travels upward, again and again. Twists and curves land her in front of those special glass doors that lead to her greatest culmination of experiments, there at the end of this hall.

Medusa switches hands, the food in her left as she pulls another key from the ring in her pocket, put to use to grab a cart from the supply room. She sets the tray down and pushes, through the doorway and into Crona's empty room.

As disappointed as she feels, it does not surprise her. The wonder of the world beyond her operating table must be vast indeed. He's technically an adult now, anyway, so to keep this entry locked and her child captive would do nothing but hinder her further plans.

He is complete, after all. The cart stands lonely in front of the boy's cool cot, reflecting the ever-present fluorescent glow and stark, blank white and she sighs at the sight. She won't look at the other side of the room. She can't.

Leaving the eerily silent accommodation, she makes one last stop before returning to Franken's side. Those hand-warmed keys jingle as she stalls, the body frozen in its lock as she breathes in; A trembling, disheartened respiration in preparation of the sight beyond.

With head hung low, braid hanging even lower, she slips in so quietly, so quickly, the heavy barrier clicks shut near immediately, lock grinding back into its slot so that Medusa is not disturbed.

_**A/N #2:**__Well, another short-ish chapter, but the end of a looooooong day. lol. _  
_Anyway, I would like to say to you lovely reviewers and favorers and followers (most of you one in the same, yeah?) THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT SO FAR! ... I screamed that, didn't I? Well, I really, really mean it. This is (and my other story Stolen) the first time I have EVER put up an 'in-progress' story. I usually wait until it's all done so it just magically appears. So, you guys are awesome! Until next time! _


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people. Vick's VapoRub is clearly NOT MINE, either.

**Chapter 8:**

Her head is throbbing, absolutely every bird call and ruffling blade of grass, the way her breath sounds and even how her heart pounds... It sucks. Even Maka's groan rattles her dry, scratchy throat as it squeaks out as a pathetic, airy, whistling mess of nonsense.

The girl hasn't even opened her eyes yet. She knows that the sun is far too bright to manage right now, even as it glows in red from the backs of her lids. Her body feels like it has been plowed through by a semi and then immediately pissed on by a rabid raccoon and left to dry by daylight, itchy and just... fucking done in.

The grass is pokey, scraping at her cheek and the rest of her exposed skin, but she doesn't want to move. Her thirst is overwhelming and that blazing ball of gas is not going to let up any time soon though, so she might as well figure it out.

She goes to pull her arm over her eyes, to shield them from the migraine irritant so that locating her water won't blow as much as it would otherwise, but she meets a kind of stinging restraint.

Oh, please... Please don't be some sort of sick trick where her wrists are roped down to spikes in the ground so that all she can do is lay here baking, wallowing in the hell that is today. Because that just doesn't sound like a good time. At all. For anyone.

Brows firmly set in a grimace, trying to quell the beating of her brain, she cracks open a single emerald orb. At first, there is nothing but the sunlight beaming annoyingly brightly against her flaxen lashes that makes her blink back its unfocused torment on her strained sockets. But when she finally zeros in on the source of her apparent capture, she has no words.

Everything still sucks, whole-heartedly, yes. Her headache does not fade, nor does the dry throat finally have a flood of lubricating saliva, the grass still fucking itches and her body still feels like a sluggish pile of useless, poisonous lead. But, that beautiful sleeping boy with one arm tucked beneath his cheek, lashes long enough to stir jealousy within her chest and flaky, blood-covered hand gripped 'round her wrist just makes her stop.

He is here, even after she deftly avoided him to come back last night when she...

Oh.

The blonde's heart speeds, heat spreading from within her breast to decorate her face the slightest of pallid pink. That would probably explain why she feels the way she does... But... He's here, covered in her blood.

He really isn't afraid of her. This boy, Crona was... He was worried about her. He is physically touching her. The pinkette stayed with her through the night. He kept her alive, she's sure.

But, how should she feel about that? Maka has nothing left, none of her old friends, no home to return to, no parents, no scholarships waiting for her to claim and no college that wants to take her. She has this metaphorical gaping hole deep inside where everything she used to be once was, a frozen, numbed hollow and she is the throbbing, aching carapace that has been left.

That's not exactly true though, is it?

Even though she has properly gotten acquainted with this blue-eyed teen for only a day, she has felt those azure pools for weeks. They are in a sense, familiar... Right? He cared enough to stay by her side and put pressure on her wounds, to keep her breathing and in this life... Does that amount to anything beyond rare human kindness?

It isn't until the blonde tastes the salt of a single tear upon her rough, chapped lips does the teen know that she is crying. That wall she built and the false security she nestled herself deep within crumbles into nothing but dust and she is left, laying on this brittle grass, staring at the only person to come to her, a stranger with such an innocent mind. A blissfully ignorant fool that has both become her savior yet condemned himself to the world outside of the one they now share.

He doesn't know that there is no going back and Maka isn't quite sure she wants to go back, anyway. Crona chose to be here, so the only logical choice, the most grateful of all, would be for her to stick by his side... Right?

It is so hard to breathe, the sun is too much and her esophagus feels like its caving in. The air comes in quick, laborious pants but none of the oxygen seems to actually be getting in, or sticking for that matter. Her face feels so hot on the inside, but the flesh is so cold and her damned head keeps pounding, sending shocks of bright, visible pulses to her vision.

She closes her eyes, trying to regulate her respiration. Deep breath in , out, more in, out, in...

The blonde passes out from her fit, body shivering even in the hot sun. Her muscles twitch, lungs now slowed enough wheeze in alarming, desperate sounding pulls that rouse cerulean from their hide within moments.

It takes only a few seconds of mind-jolting confusion before Crona realizes where he is and why, that panic from last night bubbling like caustic bile straight to his throat. That noise, Maka is making it and it definitely does not sound good.

What should he do?! Her wound seems alright for now, but the rest of her... The girl is so pale... Waxy, even, to the point that her sunny brows and lashes look blackened against her dampened complexion. Carefully, he places the teen's injured arm to the ground, her trembling sending alarms to his senses enough not to hurt her any further.

A quick check of his wrist to her forehead confirms the blonde's clammy state and he tries to think. The boy has felt this many times himself during recovery periods... But what was it that he always needed most? With a frantic whine, the boy whispers his apologies to the unconscious girl, grabbing for the bag near by to rummage through its contents, hoping that maybe she would have something to combat her dehydration before it gets any worse.

Pulling the crackling bottle from the bottom of the sack, he sets it aside. He can't just dump it in her mouth, that would drown the green-eyed girl and wouldn't help in the least.

"Maka!" Timidly, the rosette taps at the blonde's shoulder, attempting to get his voice to work behind the airy cracks and croaks that only seem to want to come out. "Maka, please wake up!"

This isn't working, he knows it isn't and he can't afford to have helped her this far only to have her exsiccate. Crona picks up Maka's head to set in his lap as his arms work themselves under hers to pull her to a leaning sit in his lap. Her gritty groan nearly makes him yelp, but he just gives her a gentle shake.

"Please, you have to wake up now!" One hand wanders away from her torso as he reaches for the warm plastic bottle, missing it on two occasions before grabbing it on the third, not wanting to look away from the girl's features in case they changed.

Tremors in his fingers betray the male as uncapping the flimsy, plastic vessel becomes the most difficult task he has ever encountered until finally it twists and falls to the grass and dirt below. The pinkette has to try, something has to help. He wavers but presses the rim at her lip and lifts the end slightly into the air.

Just a little... Just enough. The fluid dribbles thinly into the blonde's mouth and in less than a minute she is coughing. It's violent and her muscles tighten, but she is limp against his chest. He reinforces his grip on the liquid, not letting the commotion take it from his vice.

Crona holds her as steady as he can, supporting her seizing fit as her pallid face pinches in an agony he can only imagine. And, when the hacking ceases and her small voice sounds in a pained whimper, though granted, more lustrous than the gravelly, whistles of before, the boy brings the water closer, letting the female know what he is going to do before saying it.

"M-Maka, you need to drink this." He only gets a drawn grunt in response, but that is as good as any affirmation as once again he presses the plastic to her mouth, tipping it enough so that a steady trickle makes it inside and she swallows. He keeps on until there is nothing but stray droplets hanging from the transparent ridges before dropping the empty bottle to rest near its cap at the ground.

"Thanks." Maka darts her tongue out to wet her lips, that one word was hoarse and harsh on her vocals, but she still tries to smile. Its all she can do to make her lips flick a little upwards into the semblance of that simper.

"Do you think you can stand?" She's so close and the tint of his cheeks makes him want to look anywhere but right there, where she can see him clearly, but he holds his gaze knowing that her answer is far more important than his discomfort. He's already stepped out of his area of repose, anyway. The blonde tries to nod, but winces.

"I-I know you said you wanted to think about what I asked you yesterday..." Picking up both container and lid and putting it back into its place within the females belongings, his voice drifts off as he places the long strap over his head to hang at his side, like he had seen it on Maka just the day before. That done, tenderly as to not agitate any internal vexations, Crona settles the girl's unwounded arm round his neck and holds at her wrist as his other hand holds tight to her waist, lifting her to a stand with her weakened help. "But, please just let me help you."

The only things he has accomplished in this strange world beyond the gate was to murder. He has killed kids, a man and a woman; a family. He's gained interest in a person that seemed so lost yet knew exactly where she was. He's touched another person; held her in his arms and even slept next to her through the night. He wants to do more good than harm and his heart beats tortured, as if strangled when he thinks of this girl fading away, of her doing anything but coming with him so that he can assist her in whatever way possible. It hurts to think of any other scenario where that smile and those vibrant emeralds are not present.

He's frowning and beyond weary, heavy eyes, there is something of a shadow cast over his gaze. It's determined, sad, hopeful... its teary. Even if she could, Maka would not say no.

One stumbling, flaccid step after another. That is how the blonde answers, with action. Movements are grueling to her spinning, screaming brain and when Crona's support falters, it becomes obvious he has never done this before, but he tries his best to keep her upright, so she gives everything just to keep her feet moving.

When he stops, a whine rolling in his throat and distress clear in how his arm tenses at her waist, she peeks from under lids she didn't realize she had shut. That ebony gate stands thick against the sun-white sidewalk immediately recognizable from her flopped point of view. She tries to reach out, to fumble with the latch being the only one with a free hand, but freezes immediately as fire seems to shoot up her arm, white-hot and immersive. She gasps in a sort of chopped, backward scream.

The rosette pulls her even closer in response, flip-flop covered soles slide spread in reinforcement and his warm palm leaves her wrist, jittering its transit to the old, rust-covered latch. The girl isn't big, but the weight to him is foreign. He doesn't want to drop her, losing all that blood has mislain her strength so he needs to pull through and they need the gate open to move just that much further.

Its hard to move with just one hand and the boy isn't quite sure if he should push or yank it, he is unsuccessful in his stint many times before Crona just grabs, shaking it back and forth. Metal scraps against metal in a grating creak as the barred barrier swings its open, letting the two slump through.

Still relatively early, the short but extensive, shuffling walk across the stretched ebony road is only stalled by two passing cars that swerve instead of pausing, triumphant in making the pinkette's strong dislike of the noisy, smelly things grow even further. His head darts back and forth, trying to spot the next roaring engine and shining paint job, even after they settle onto the other porous path.

Maka tries to stay focused, to keep her legs pumping and orbs open to the world around them, her irises keep hopping, trying to roll back and every time it happens, she has to blink away the sleep trying to drag her down. She's so tired and this swirling pain in her head... She just wants it to go away. But this solid, warm body holding the girl up... It's nice. That hand at her rib cage is so soft, gentle, but reliable.

She's not quite sure what's really going on anymore but it feels important that she keeps swinging these cumbersome extremities and keep that lulling heat so very near. It has been so long since she's felt something like this... It's pleasant... Normal.

The wood grain scratches his forehead as he presses through, its hinges give off a mute squeak and he is thankful that he didn't secure the thing when he left last night. They teeter a little with the rocks that roll and spread beneath, grinding against each other in inanimate hisses as Crona steps and drags the blonde along. She needs to rest and internally he's screaming at himself because of what he knows is coming next.

Stairs.

Three whole flights of them.

Still, he gets them across the gravel-lain yard, and to the double doors that he struggles to open with his only his elbow, catching its handle at just the right angle so that they can enter, it closes behind with a click, the tension arm at the top whirs as it slides back to its normal position.

The smooth marble is different under his covered feet creating an odd sort of slipping traction that makes it even more difficult to stay upright, with the woozy girl in his arms pressing his center of balance off kilter but somehow, by the miraculously non-incident of gliding along with bent knees and the squeaks of Maka's sneakers as they scuffed against the polished surface, they made it around the bend and half-way across the wide foyer.

Crona has to take a break. He has to catch his breath and mentally prepare himself for the feat that rises before his wide, distressed eyes in triple.

'Piggy back!' The vociferation bounces around his brain cells suddenly, making the rosette flinch, and then cock his head, thoroughly confused. There are no pigs around and he's quite sure that riding a pig up the massive multitude of steps would only make this predicament more perilous.

'Put that cow on your back, dumbass!' Now how would that work? She's barely even standing and he's never had to deal with anyone on his back... 'Egyptian slaves could do it. Skinny little assholes are, like, meant to play pack-mule or some shit.' He did read about something like that once...

"M-Maka?" The boy softly nudges the worn female, needing as much cooperation as she can manage in order to make this work so that they both don't end up taking a tumble.

"Hmm?" Those green eyes peek at him as her head tilts.

"C-Could you maybe... Hold on to me real tight? I-I'm going to put you on my back, okay?" Looking down at her as she blinks and nods a little, a crease in her brow showing him that she's trying to stay conscious.

He turns his body, kneeling enough to get her in the right position. She tightens her arm around his neck, the injured one draping over his shoulder as his hand that once was on her waist now grips the underside of her thigh. Her legs squeeze just above his hips and he straightens up enough to grab the banister with one palm to guide.

'A 'thank you' would be nice.' It's easier to move her, like this and he mentally berates himself for not having thought of it sooner. Each upward footfall, his shoes clack against the surface, every progression onto the next flight is easier than the last, until he's gaining in speed, in confidence, though his hand stays at the rail, for safety reasons.

The rosette can feel the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes out hot little puffs against his shoulder blade. Those arms around his neck, though smelling of burnt copper and the slashes looking like hell, they feel... nice. Has this kind of touch always felt like this? It's nothing like that which the doctor gives, cold and a prelude to needles or scalpels.

"What does love mean to you?" Crona finds himself asking absently, mostly more to himself and the mental version of his mother than anything else. He was not expecting the raspy voice at his nape to reply and tenses at the airy sound.

"It is..." A heated puff whispers at his skin and pale inky-crimson stains the boy's cheeks at the feel, surpressing a shiver. "all lies."

"It's painful." Crona corrects, though its more of an awestruck addition.

"Cold." The girl continues in a tired drawl.

"Love is a test." He sighs, agreeing. A downward simper decorating his features as that blush fades and his orbs cloud over in memory.

"It's not how people describe it." He lowers his head but dutifully keeps his gaze on the stairs, because her drowsy, grit-filled sentence is true. Love isn't the same thing as what he has read that it is.

"It's been tainted."

"Mmm." The girl hums against him accepting this, because maybe the way that emotion and all it contains was once as pure as is told but during its existence has morphed into this terrible thing, never to be the same. Tainted, huh.

The vibrations tickle at his flesh and goosebumps make his hair stand on end as they reach the top. His strides echo through the halls they pass in hollow clacks, the white seems even more blinding than the sun itself, making it feel like they are just splotches of moving dirt marring these walls with every beat of sole and marble.

Soon enough, they go through the glass doors and straight on until both are in that fluorescent-lit, bare room. The room Crona spent most of his life in, with Ragnarok.

It's strange, the way his chest constricts and ducts burn. Almost like she shouldn't be here, like he just brought her into such an intimate part of himself, like he baring his soul to this semi-conscious female, leaving it open to scrutiny and vulnerable. What would his brother say about his visitor... His friend? Only briefly does the pinkette glance at that empty cot, so cold for so long.

He can't put her there, or on his for that matter. Medusa may come at some point... He goes to move toward the bathroom but nudges something that scrapes and creaks with the bump. Food... kind of. Good, Maka will need it when he finds a place for her.

Continuing on, crystal blue scans the stark restroom for something, somewhere to set her down. She's not exactly heavy, per se... But he's not used to this kind of effort. This, everything, is new to the boy... That and his legs and arms are about to give out.

Free hand flipping the toilet lid down, Crona turns around and with some awkward squatting backsteps manages to set the girl on it. He taps her elbow to get her attention and she lets go in response.

"Will you be able to keep sitting up?" He hasn't moved yet in case she gives a negative answer, but he swivels a bit, enough to look a her from the corner of his eye. To his surprise, she's found a place to lay at the counter's edge, an orb cracked enough to see as she responds.

"I think I can do that." The girl shoots him a pathetic looking thumbs up and hisses into a smirk, forgetting that she slashed the utter shit out of herself on that particular connected appendage. Pink, choppy locks swish as the boy nods slowly, the one azure iris weighing her answer.

Apparently, after he stood and stepped back to watch for a second more, the answer was good enough and he steps out of the door to return a few seconds later with a cart that seems to screech directly into her brain stem. Maka holds back the groan, not wanting to sound unappreciative... and because her throat is sore.

It's so damned resplendent in here, everywhere, it's hard for the blonde to open her eyes, even more so just to adjust while all this light is just blaring holes in her barely-there consciousness and then something is pushed in front of her view, reflecting a rough estimate of three-thousand watts of flash from the ceiling directly at her, nearly blinding the girl and sending fresh shocks of stabbing pain to her frontal lobe. She blinks, but its lazy and slow to open but when she does, she has some sort of glass hovering in front of her and shaky hand holding it.

Its a translucent dark yellow and kind of looks like a urine sample some one would shamefully hand their doctor, but the boy who held her together and carried her into his home is giving this to her, so she accepts, with her good hand this time. Its an effort just to angle her elbow on the sparkling, blessedly cold surface in order to hold herself up. Her throbbing cranium feels both dizzyingly light and like a compressed ton, but she lifts it enough just to take a sip.

Mmm, apple juice.

One turns into two, two morphs into slurping gulps and before she realizes, the liquid is gone and the glass is depressingly empty. But she feels a little better, a little more stable. The migraine once a full on brain beat is now just a dull ache and the sandpaper of her esophagus is now nothing but an irritating tickle. She's still tired, but not as faint and the teen smiles. One of relief, of gratitude, to Crona which makes those eyes shift and cheeks tint. Such a deep color, it almost reminds the girl of a porcelain doll.

"I have some food, too. I-It might be a little cold, though."

Huh. That cart is rolled back in front of her and it's not nearly as much of a pain to look at, and on top of it... Soup? Well, anything is better than nothing! She nods, a full one this time, that grin still firmly in place as she picks up the spoon, her body straightening, wrist laying across the top of her thighs. Its a very rich amber with hints of some sort of green herb and when the lever dips into it, Maka can tell that it's thick.

As soon as the sludge hits her tongue, it seems to slide down her gullet without prompt. She feels violated and in its wake is the strangest mixture, like bland, creamed almonds, milk and toothpaste. The blonde must have made some sort of face, because the the way the rosette grimaces there really isn't any other explanation.

"O-Oh God, I probably should have warned you about the taste!" He scrunches his nose and it is probably the funniest thing she's seen lately, his eyes like saucers. Is that even physically possible? It is, he's doing it. But he knows what she is enduring and the fact that he seems so used to it is just... sad. "I'm so sorry!"

She laughs the apology off and takes another scoop, he offered it and she will eat it because, flavor aside, it soothes her throat and feels pretty good in her stomach. Still, she grimaces and once more he flinches. But she keeps on, trying not to breathe as she eats as not to taste it so much. It works, to an extent, until it is done and the minty freshness of that odd concoction invades her senses like a heaping swab of vaporub and an already cleared chest-cold.

That headache is gone now and even though Maka could go for a nap, she's not too bad off. She's sitting with her back straight, not a slumped mound and the only thing that is really off is the stained and flaking gashes against otherwise-clean (ish) skin. Rushing water makes her turn her head from the obscene blade-art and to the boy who's hands work under the cylindrical stream, bubbles of pink falling away to nothing as he next grabs a dry cloth to wet under the flow. Seems like they were on the same page, the blonde grins to herself noting how he'd grabbed the cloth for her, probably as soon as she started inspecting the nasty cuts.

He's so kind to her, even though he doesn't know her. He risked so much being covered in her blood, a gamble that not many would take for a mere acquaintance.

When the washcloth is dampened with an ample amount of water and a thin spread of suds, he rings it out so that it won't drip, but when he catches her emerald, amicable stare he jumps a little, startled but smiles a tiny smile once he recovers. Bringing the rag to the girl, he then goes back to the linen closet to grab the first-aid kit and comes back to sit at the wall, knees to his chest, kit to shins, watching as each tender rub paints the white fibers with red.

Each time she bites her lip, she rubs at her arm harder. Every time she rubs harder, her brows crease and that lost, vacant look comes into her eyes. He decides that he hates that look, even though it's what drew him to her in the first place. She was wearing it yesterday, on and off... But if it makes her like this...

His mind reels when those deep jade orbs flicker to him and he looks down at his own hand upon hers, stopping the violent scrub. Silence follows, the words caught like a knot in his chest. The pinkette just takes the cloth back, setting down the plastic box so that he can help.

Gentle and unrushed, the wet fabric feathers over her torn flesh, crimson fading into irritated tan and he works the cloth upward to catch the path the trails had taken along her her forearm. Those green orbs witness the scene, but his focus is on cleaning the blonde and keeping as much pain from the task as possible. When he is done, the rag gets tossed to the glittering white counter top with an unceremonious splat and that kit opened.

Crona busies himself grabbing packs gauze and medical wrap, ripping open the first with his teeth and blanketing the gashes. When he begins to wrap, his orbs dart from Maka's face to the bandaging, searching for any sort of discomfort. He pauses for her blinks, when she inhales and the process seems to drag on, but the blonde isn't really complaining.

"Done." A sigh of relief leaves the teen and he cleans up the discarded wrappings, snapping the box shut and standing to put it back in its proper place.

"Why?" Maka feels a bit of reverse deja vu, but still the question escapes her. The boy just continues, walking to the entryway where the closet is, turning the knob and returning the kit.

"I don't know." Pushing the door closed, it thunks mutely.

"You don't even know me..." Why these questions are popping out of her mouth, she doesn't know. The blonde is grateful, she really is!

"I know you more than anyone else." He turns, those icy blues are flat and a thin line is pressed at his lips as if he is ashamed. Maybe he is? Maybe not. "Besides, is it really necessary to know a lot of people? From what you've said, they all just leave. It's natural, right?"

He stops, his palm creeping up his arm to hold it, curling in on himself as he thinks on his next words, whether to let them out or not. A small giggle escapes and he muffles it with the tips of his free fingers.

"Ragnarok's gone!" The sentence shakes behind his thin digits. "Your family, your friends left you! I don't want to leave you! You're interesting and really pretty." The bubbling trill dies instantly, dim azure brightening back up in the light as he squeaks in embarrassment. "I-I mean, you just seem like someone I could relate to... No one else even knows about me."

A thumb traces the edges of cloth at her wrist absently as she takes in his words. The laughing was a little disconcerting, but the words... They were all true. Actually, it sounded petty described so simply, making everything beneath this bandage seem like just a bad reaction.

A stupid one.

Crona's alone as well and if he's being completely honest, then that means he's never known anyone but his family and the doctor that he's mentioned.

"Crona?" The way he looks at her with eager curiosity with a hint of nearly contagious anxiety is mentally crippling and Maka almost forgets what she was going to ask. "Why are you being seen by a doctor?"

It doesn't matter to her if he has some sort of disease or disability, that boat has sailed the moment his fingers put pressure on her gaping, bleeding wrist... But for sake of her inquiring mind and the fact that she will have to hide from this person -at least, for the time being- she needs to know.

"She's our mother. My and Ragnarok's, I mean." The rosette's timbre seems to fade to nothing and his features lower to the sparkling floor below.

"Where is Ragnarok, then? I mean, I know you said he left..." So, the doctor is also his mother... No one else even knows about him. Was he born here? Has he even left? Hers are the only shoes he's ever had, Crona said so himself... Oh God. Her chest hurts, such a lonely existence...

"I don't know, she took him."

~O~O~O~

He can hear that sickeningly sweet voice of hers, can't comprehend what the fuck she is saying, but if he could, he wouldn't give a flying fuck either way. The fucking pain takes precedence over everything.

Its everywhere. The throbbing, stinging. He thinks he's breathing, but he doesn't recall how to manipulate his body for that particular process, so how the hell is it even happening? Come to think of it...

He...

He can't fucking move at all! He can't see because his flitty fucking eyelids won't lift... Or maybe this is all just a bad fucking dream. Sleep paralysis or some shit, part of the longest fucking nightmares ever.

God! THAT FUCKING PAIN! The oxygen in his lungs is so fucking cold, it fucking BURNS. They feel so full of air that they will just explode like a damned balloon or whatever, it stretches his chest and that pulls against his stitches. The cuts are still so fucking deep, it never ends... He doesn't want to be a fucking pansy or anything like that, but hell, he can't do shit but sit here and feel it.

It isn't getting any better, hasn't been, but don't anyone dare tell that little wimp this shit. He'd probably cry and piss himself feeling bad. And that shit just doesn't make any damn sense. Nothing does.

How long has it been? How old is he? Will this shit ever fucking end?

Ragnarok doesn't know. And if he did, he wouldn't be able to say anything, anyway. That fucking doctor would know, the one that makes his aching brain want to vomit up aneurysms so that they can burst and he won't have to hear that nauseatingly honeyed blabber bullshit that psycho spouts any more.

Damn it. Please? He fucking begs all the spirity higher-beings and shit, MAKE IT FUCKING STOP!

The surgeries, the pain... Her. Just fucking stop HER. He always has been able to handle this shit better than that baby, but he can't do anything at all, and if she's doing the same shit to him...

This bitch needs to die.

Heat races through what kind of feels like a tube at his thigh, irritating yet another of his past operation sites. One of many that wouldn't heal, one of which he used to manage with at least a little bit of decency and morphine, but he guesses that protocol is past its prime. No, he's not embarrassed that he just essentially pissed himself with the help of a damned catheter, nor is he ashamed of the colostomy bag steadily collecting his liquid shits in a pouch like a fucking prized trophy.

He's never had a choice in this and neither has his little fairy of a brother. This shit is old news. But not being able to move, to talk... Not being able to do anything but lay on this cold ass table in this frigid fucking room soiling his self and listening this freakshow bitch ramble about shit no one cares about but her... Not being able to make sure Crona's okay.

Ragnarok can't help but worry about the shrimp. It's like he can hear the fucking kid freaking out sometimes, inside his own head where he's trapped, imprisoned by this body that the fucking doctor ruined.

Ruined...? Huh.

Well, shit. It's true.

~O~O~O~

"Respond to me, Ragnarok. I need you to wiggle just one finger. One." Her eyes are strained, probably bloodshot from this session. She hasn't blinked for what seems like hours now. Medusa is drained of tears that she'd not show anyone. Her son lay here, broken and torn, a failure to this experiment she was so sure of... Her failure.

She's already given a full dosage of Crona's plasma once the black blood took hold. The doctor has even tried diluting and administering the treatment on a daily basis. Still, his incision sites have not yet healed. At least she was present enough of mind to use wire that doesn't dissolve, saving valuable organ tissue... But it doesn't wash away the fact that her son, her child is... He's essentially a living corpse.

Soon the wounds will fester with infection, no matter how dutifully she cleans them. They will swell and they will pass his own bodily made poison through his body, and then he really will be dead. But until then, she still has time. Medusa sits back in the chair, allowing her weary orbs to shut as she rubs the dryness from them.

The fact is that she does have time and he is both stable and alive with the help of her medicines, the technology she's fashioned and upgraded. The blonde woman hasn't failed yet. Taking her hands off of her face, she leans closer to the boy's bedside and runs her fingertips along the smooth plastic to the buttons, pressing one with a desperate, clinging hope that more treatment, more time and more exposure will finally lead to results.

Machinery whirs and grinds from under the slab, coming up and over the noirette's defunct form, rubber, strong-hold accordion flaps making way for the curves at his neck and slots especially for Ragnarok's leads. Pressure whooshes in among the many hisses of the bottom tank's valves and with just on more button pushed, volts course through the boy's every nerve, dancing along those many human roadways in dull sparks that she watches from the transparent window slat.

There is still no movement, but she can't give up. She won't lose him.

Medusa whirls around in her chair toward the single-plank shelves of black and reaches with twitching fingers for the miniature refrigeration unit. The seal cracks, it's fan circles and the doctor grabs a prepared syringe of inky serum. The braided blonde uncaps its thin, hypodermic tip and pushes out any bubbles that could prove problematic.

She swivels once more, feet dragging the rolling chair closer to her child's drips and injects the liquid. Cold, watery red-ringed gold watches as the bag clouds in aquatic poofs of ebony until it fades out to nothing but grey tint and sighs, hoping for favorable result... Hoping for response.

She's hoping that her son will awaken, so that she may see those fiercely blue eyes behind that mop of shagged and chopped black hair. Medusa keeps trained on every bit of Ragnarok, one jerk, a wiggle, a sound, show her something to keep her hope strong.

~O~O~O~

He doesn't know why he told her all of that. It was probably far too much information! Maka only asked one question. One! And somehow all of it came tumbling from his mouth like some sort of reflex. He feels sick. The rosette can't look at her, not when he knows that the blonde is studying him with those emerald eyes. THOSE EYES, the ones that trapped him, coaxing the whole truth from him with a kind light.

It was so quiet any time he paused, it felt weird not to say something else! One thing led to another and the boy's entire life story had been spilled like, like, like something messy. Oh god! What will she think? He can't meet her gaze, so ashamed of his own existence and the fact that he basically beamed when he told the girl that he watched her weeks before yesterday. Weeks! He felt himself smile while telling her about how he saw her and what assumptions he had made.

She hasn't said a word. Not one the entire time, so maybe she just wants to leave. He's too much of a freak, an experiment, a screw up, a cry baby-

"So... You don't own any pants, either?" He nearly jumps when the girl speaks, but her question completely derails his train of self-deprecating thought. Reeling somewhere between absolutely mystified and utterly damned confused.

He blinks.

And blinks again.

"What?"

"I'm sorry, completely off-topic!" The blonde girl shrugs with nervous laughter tinkling out like little bells and he almost falls over at the nonchalance of it all. "But, I was just thinking that if you were constantly in and out of your mother's-"

"-Doctor Gorgon." He had to. It had to be corrected. He hasn't been able to call her mother for so long and it just couldn't be held back any more.

"-operating- Wait! She doesn't let you call her 'Mom' or something like that?" She knows she's glaring and Maka hopes that he knows that she isn't mad at him. "That's horrible! How could she..."

He has his face hidden again but there's a sadness there, an emptiness that resonates with her, pulling at her heartstrings and making her remember her own mother. Momma left her with Papa, to the creditors and everything else that she's had to deal with. Does she really have that much room to talk?

"Anyway!" The green-eyed girl tries to salvage what is left of the non-awkward air in this bathroom of personal-baggage-tension. "I just kind of gathered that maybe pants or any other clothes wouldn't be on your list of items owned."

"This is all I have." Crona lifts his arms to the sides, showing off the silken jet robe in all its glory before letting them fall. "All of them are the same. I don't even know how many I have. I never really gave it much thought before."

A stony expression takes up residence in the girl's features as she thinks about this boy's life. There is so much that he hasn't experienced, at least not first hand. He spoke of literature in a way that leaves a strange feeling welling deep in her being, stories of lives and amazing feats that could only be imagined. Like they were the life-line he had to the world beyond this room, unlike with other people where books are just an escape.

Essentially, the pinkette lived between lines of black text describing things he's never even seen and not in this room. Much different than the fantasies of her own, breaking away from the way her life turned out in the pages of trashy romance novels. Her gaze softens again, a reassuring simper drawing her mouth into friendly upward quirk.

"Will you come with me for a while?" Maka tries to put strength back into her voice, but it still comes out wavering and airy, the breath stolen from her lungs at the lack of life he's been given.

"If it's with you, I will." Those cerulean orbs peek up at her, and even though she can clearly see the anxiety and fear etched in the lines of his face, he still agrees. Her heart skips a beat but a question burning within puts a pinch in her brow.

"Why do you look so afraid?" Cocking her head, she smiles once more trying to ease whatever is troubling the boy. "You should be excited! We'll go see some things that you haven't seen before and get you out of that gown and into something YOU like. Please don't worry."

"I-It's not that, really." Crona raises his gaze to meet her own. "There's so many people out there."

Oh... Is he afraid of being seen with her? He walked around with her yesterday but the sidewalks were hardly crowded. Her face falters but still she tries to keep that smile.

"I can try to find someplace a little less crowded so you won't have to worry too much about being seen with me, it's okay." When she finishes soft but lacking enthusiasm, the rosette holds a yelp hostage in his mouth, attempting not to let it out.

"NO, no! I-I mean, there's so many people out there and they will be so close! I've never touched anyone before you and any time I have been touched was by Doctor Gorgon and it always hurts. That, and I've only been in here and crowds of others all of a sudden... I just, I can only imagine that this feeling is what its like to drown." The teen takes a deep breath, letting the oxygen sit before letting it out and drawing another to do the same. "Its hard to breathe just thinking about those swarms of hands and bodies. It is so different than being in here by myself or with my brother. He knows to keep distance, he doesn't like being touched either because it's painful."

"... And you still helped me?" That smile is gone with the realization of what the boy probably needed to go through in order for that seemingly small act. What would be easy for normal people to help their friends or family must have been a type of torture for this rose-haired teen. The shame she feels, it magnifies further turning her gut in sickening knots. "I'm sorry."

"I like you, Maka." Her mouth opens enough to suck in a gasp, those nauseating twists at her core fade to a stop as Crona jerks from the way his words came out. "I-I-I didn't mind helping you. I wanted to. Your touch is nice." His cheeks tint that ashy-red remembering the feel of her arms around his neck and her body against his, how it seemed to mold to his own in a downy, warm comfort that he had never known could even exist.

"I like you too, Crona." She lets a little giggle slip, his actions and overshares a charming little break away from the seriousness and depth of both of their issues. "You don't feel too bad yourself." She winks at him and he gawks not seeing the uninjured hand stretched out in offering until she raises it eye-level. "Come on!"

Fingers twitching, arm shaking he pauses before touched the proffered palm. His vision cuts from the soft, tanned hand and those brilliant deep jade pools and back to it again before grabbing it loosely.

"I'll be with you every step of the way."

Whether it is the sincerity in her eyes or the gentle smile seemingly just for him, with this girl, for once in his life, he doesn't feel so terrified. Her fingers weaved with his own, that simple touch is filled with so much more than the pain he always anticipated, he feels himself still. She's lulling his nerves with just a touch and her presence and at this moment, he is thankful to all that is that he was able to save her, to keep that lovely face lively... He's thankful that he has her with him now so that they both do not have to be alone anymore.

_**A/N:**__ I can't promise more timely updates anymore as school will be starting soon and I have kids to juggle, but I can say that this and my other story will not be forgotten. :) I know most of you are likely younger than I am so... Umm... Good luck on your first day and may you all have a fruitful year. Work hard. Don't let people that do not matter talk down to you. You are a perfect YOU. And if ANY ONE-I don't care if you think we are strangers and that I won't listen because I will- needs someone to talk to about something, I am here and just a PM away._

_I have been there, believe me. From drugs to teenage homeownership and foreclosure, crime and friends that stabbed me in the back. Even so, I graduated with a 4.21 GPA with a full-ride scholarship and yet, I let my boyfriend at the time (of 4 years on and off, bought the house with him) talk me out of the education of my dreams with a guilt trip. -I'm back with my first love and husband, btw. A good one that I have NEVER fought with.-_

_Sorry for the random PSA, but I just want you to know... You have my support. Let me build you back up, okay? Besides, like I said before... If you have read this far, most of this stuff is based off of reality. _

_Until next time!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of its characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people. I also do not own Jack Dawson or 'Titanic' - James Cameron does.

**Chapter 9:**

Shit.

She has not thought this through in the least. Exhausted and utterly achy as Maka is, that is the least of her worries. The walk from that eerie house and through the winding turns of city streets, she was just glad to have someone by her side. The blonde did not see past that subtle smile and those blue eyes, rationality had taken the backseat to the warmth of this small joy. Having him so near, wanting to see where she would lead him... And that smile. Did she mention it already? Oh well, the picture has been drawn and surely any who would care to question would understand.

But... Damn it. Right now, all she can do is stare at her own distressed reflection in the glass doors and chrome handles. She knows he's confused, his happy little simper has vanished in place of a puzzled frown as that crystalline gaze darts from her to the diner and back. Maka sighs, breaking her stare and effectively startling the befuddled male.

"Shit." How stupid can she really be? It's not like the blonde can just waltz into any building and do as she pleases! And taking that into consideration, she has already broken a promise. Her face lowers, a mirthless chuckle cuts past her dry lips.

"W-What's wrong?" Such a soft question the pinkette asks that only grants a shake of a pig-tailed head in response. "Maka?" The worry in his timbre is enough to make the girl's heart skip a beat and her face lifts slowly in reaction.

Honestly, the blonde is wholly unused to being spoken to in such a way. It has been so long since anyone has wanted her to speak to them, since anyone wanted to hear what is on her mind. It is pleasant and embarrassing, awkward and warm and -for all intents and purposes- Maka is enjoying it a lot. But she can't keep from biting her lip and he gasps at that dullness trying to snuff out that light in her emerald eyes.

"I'm sorry." Crona doesn't understand why, he can't even imagine the things running through her head. Wasn't she just smiling? She had laughed giddy little giggles that made his mind stop and cheeks tint. She had questioned him about things he wanted to see, what he wanted to do. Maka had enthusiastically described the mental list of places they would explore, but all of that came to a stop the moment they reached this place.

Where did that happiness go? Why does she feel the need to apologize to him? Doesn't she know... she probably couldn't disappoint him if she tried.

"Maka?" Her name leaves his mouth in breathy inquest as he fights to find more words to offer.

"It seems..." The girl closes her eyes briefly as she mentally berates herself for talking him up just to send his hopes crashing to the filthy sidewalk below. "... I'm a bit of a dumb-ass."

"What do you-?" The rosette tries, only for her palm to halt him and her orbs to slide back to the transparent mirrored surface.

"I wanted to eat something with you. Sustenance that tastes like actual food and not something that should be used as a lotion instead of ingestion." She glances at the boy's reflection in the glass. "But I can't go in there... Or anywhere really."

His brows pinch as he listens, noticing that that liveliness in those pools of deep jade is becoming nothing but a dull flicker and the way shes balling her fists, without a doubt irritating her injuries.

"Then, we w-will." He turns his face, no longer satisfied with looking at some fading ghostly impression and grabs her hand. Maka opens her mouth in protest, but the words are stuck. Her fist loosens, unfurling as the other palm tingles with the pink-haired male's heat. "We'll figure it out, together." Crona gives her a twitchy smile, the feel of her, though nice, still sending mixed fires in his brain.

"Yeah... You're right." The blonde reels as crimson paints her cheeks, a baffled grin working its way leisurely across her features.

They stay like that a few moments hearts a-flutter, upward simpers and blushes a-glow until Maka comes to her senses and their surroundings come crashing back down around them, awkward laugh and a shake of her head breaking the pinkette from his zoned daze as well.

"Um..." Did she really get goo-goo eyed and stare deeply into this boy's eyes in front of a restaurant she's banned from in the middle of town? Holy shit, that was... weird. "So... Yeah, let's go!"

"R-Right."

Maka starts walking, but he still has her hand and it's a bit distracting. She has no idea what to do now and the fog of tiredness isn't helping much. But they match stride, side-by-side on the pavement and her palm shifts, fingers lacing delicately with Crona's. For once, she is blissfully unaware of anyone else, their judgement and disgust the last thing on her mind as she enjoys this aimless stroll so much like a normal teenager's.

~O~O~O~

"BRENT~!" Evil as the devil himself, she smiles at the trembling boy working the cash register, leaning far over the counter than necessary as the boy beside her watches with widened cerulean and fidgeting, not knowing what to do with himself.

"Y-Yes?" The worker squeaks, backing ever-so slightly from his post, business smile firmly plastered on but so fake a blind man could tell. "W-Welcome to Deathbucks! How can I help you, today?"

Cocking her head, her lips twist even more, orbs narrowing at the mousy male as his eye begins to twitch.

"I want two dozen vanilla bean scones and two venti mocha frappuccinos, please and thank you." The blonde speaks very slowly, clearly, enunciating each syllable in a sort of challenge. She's curious how far she can push, can she break him? As infuriating as her first encounter was, this... This is kind of fun. Especially when he begins to pack the little, tasty, white triangular treats without even a press of a smart-screen button.

"Right away! Anything for the first customer of the day!" It's obvious that that is an outright lie, with the crumple straw papers littering the tiles beneath the counter and the cream rings at the trash and customization bar, as if she'd bring that up, though. It is amusing to see his jittery fingers place one bag after another on the far edge and scoot them timidly toward her.

"Maka?" Crona whispers from the side of his mouth, with a brow quirked and eyes trained on the coffee-shop employee that is visibly shivering as he shuffles back and forth to make their drinks. "What is happening here?"

"I'll tell you in a minute." Her airy tone answers with a hint of laughter and a twisted lilt of astonished pride.

Being the lone worker of the shop due to inventory circumstances, he tries to move quickly, pumping syrup and pouring milk, scooping ice and blending the mix but he jumps at the surprised yelp at his hind which makes him drop the jug of dairy on the floor. It splatters across the metal front of the fridges and slates across the terracotta floor as an achromic slime, taunting a bad morning into worse. The blender cuts off its clamorous whir and he steps, halfway between wanting to grab a mop and finishing up this damned order to send the girl on her way.

Brent slips, and he slips hard. Lead foot skidding to wayward directions as his supporting sole kicks forward and in but an instant his ass is soaking up cow juice and Maka Albarn is basically hanging on his clean counter, spreading her germs all over the pristine equipment with her damning giggles of diseased air.

Filthy.

He is absolutely covered in filth and the employee can't help the chills that run down his spine. He needs to clean this all up, to disinfect, to change... But first, Brent needs to get this nasty female out of his store. She has breached sacred territory and that is terribly unacceptable. That counter and everything beyond is his while he is on the clock and she has tarnished his pride and joy by her mere entrance.

Wincing a little at the sharp pain in his tailbone, the boy cautiously picks himself up, avidly ignoring the guffaws from the she-devil with his best service-smile and begins to wash his hands, the very least he can do in the time provided.

That done, water off, Brent pulses the blender twice before releasing the pitcher from its plastic, cubic cage and pours the rich brown contents into two clear cups, topping them both with whipped cream before tip-toeing with care to the hand-off plane and setting both beverages down.

"Two venti mocha frappuccinos! Have a nice day!" Loudly, in order to be heard atop the rolling laughter, the Deathbucks worker calls. He hopes that that blonde won't try to pay him again, just thinking about her money laying in the register with the other bills, the germs piling, festering as each microscopic being writhes and multiplies is enough to make him want to find a replacement. Which is impossible for today, thanks to a call-off, in which he is the replacement.

With that the boy ducks through a swinging door to the back room, Maka rubs at her ribs as she respirates in a stiff sort of ache through the giggles that are still blurting randomly and she slides back off of the white counter, onto her feet with the mute click of ceramic and hard rubber.

The dull red tiles and matching grout pass in blurred lines as she goes to grab the drinks, plucking up some straws and comes back, handing one over to Crona with its accompanying sipping piece.

He watches as she peels the paper off of the green, plastic tube and shoves it into the mocha slush and follows suit while walking at her side. She takes a sip and he gives the palm-freezing beverage a once-over before taking a dragging mouthful himself.

Heaven.

The rosette's world stops in order to commemorate this moment in time as that ice melts against his virgin buds and washes away in a torrent of bitter and sweet and luxurious liquid silk. Ambrosia, he's reminded of something he's read in a book about mythology, food of the gods... He's certain he has found a modern-day form of the stuff.

Crona takes another sip, a greedy one that bathes his entire mouth with deliciousness that he sort of wishes he didn't have to swallow, and then he opens his eyes. But, he didn't even know he had closed them! Bright green and black greets him back into the present and he nearly drops the cup of mythical god-food. Blasphemy!

"You like it?" The emerald orbs zoom out and he can finally see Maka's entire face instead of the startling, eclipsing irises.

"It's amazing." The boy sighs, nerves finally in check.

"Mmm-hmm!" She agrees and gingerly dangles one bag of vanilla scones in front of his face. "Now, you should try these!"

The rosette takes the package and brushes off the unsettling fact that they are back out on the sidewalk and he has no recollection of it. Azure skims over the crinkling paper in hand and the eager deep jade waiting... Watching.

Heat is burning his cheeks, it's making him embarrassed, self-conscious. What if he makes a fool of himself? What if crumbs get stuck on his lips? What about his teeth?

"Go on." She's gotten closer again while he was fighting with himself and her velvety words make his flesh rise in bumps. "Try it."

"It's hard to eat with you... " He catches her gaze and is frozen in place, he can't look away and it's utterly alarming. "You know, ...Staring at me." The way that his voice faded into that of a tiny tot was humiliating, but the blonde shrugs and backs away, carefully manipulating the cup at her bandaged wrist and chest and eating a scone pressed up through the opening of the package with her other hand. It was embarrassing, but his words were heeded none-the-less, allowing him to take the first bite of solid food he has ever eaten.

As soon as the icing flakes and a crust of the pastry hits his tongue, Crona is nearly certain that the heavens hath shone upon him this day. The bright light of the sun is ethereal, the wind filled otherwise with static vehicle horns and disgruntled persons now sounds like a chorus of harmonious vibrato lulling his mind and setting his physical form free from the ties of Earth itself. Unbound by the laws of gravity and physics alike.

"So... How was it?" He once again opens his eyes, coming to with a jerk.

"Gah!" He huffs, firm grip on both the drink and scones as he pulls away from the nose against his own by standing to his full height, but once he realizes it's only Maka, smiles. "Don't do that!" He chuckles, due to nerves and the humor of it all.

He stops himself by shoving another bite of the delectable pastry into his mouth and the blonde giggles at the sight before partaking sumptuously in her frappuccino as her sneakers once again begin to move, carrying her forward and Crona to pursue in the same leisurely fashion.

"They think I've got some sort of disease because of my Papa." The pink-haired male nearly chokes on the scone, the information was so suddenly given, he wasn't expecting it, nor was he expecting the monotone in which it was breathed.

"Who?" Recovering from a small coughing fit, the boy rasps his askance.

"Everyone. That's why they all left." Maka's surprised at how easily it comes from her, the numbness present but not at the same time. She just feels... odd. "My friends, teachers, my other family... No one believed me when I told them I tested negative for any signs, symptoms, or tell-tale bacteria."

"I don't understand why they would do that to you. It seems like the answer was right in front of them but all they had for you was denial." He takes a drag of the mocha slush, washing away the mounting dryness caused by the bread. "It isn't fair."

"I know why they did it, I guess." She sighs. "Fear. No one wants to come down with something that will kill them and they don't want to pass it on. Logically I can accept it... It's just... Emotionally I have a long way to catch up." Her throat burns, as does her ducts. But she won't cry. She won't... She won't... Maka sniffs, trying hard to rein in the driving discord at her hollow core.

"It's just an excuse." The boy merely states but tears begin to cloud her vision. "If they were really close to you, they would have listened."

And there it is. The culmination of her efforts defending the very people that deserted her, the thin veil of carefully stitched reasoning unraveled in an instant. She didn't want to accept the fact for so long that her understanding had become the norm, making her bitter but holding her together. None of those people were ever really close to her. Family, friends, neighbors, teachers, peers... Every fucking body. Out of everyone in this town, none have stayed by her side... None except for the newest addition into her life... And he listened. He's here. He's been here even before this news! Crona doesn't look like he's searching for an out, he's drinking his drink and eating a fucking bag of scones with her.

The tears roll down her cheeks, but the girl laughs through it. And when he looks at her, she smiles a wavering smile... Because she's gracious. So fucking ecstatic that she at least has someone among the sea of falsehood she convinced herself were meaningful relationships.

"I-I'm sorry!" Those blue pools are large, surprised at the sadness welling and spilling forth from the girl, that smile makes his chest ache. "I didn't mean to be insensitive."

"No, it's okay. It's true." She sniffs again, this time gaining strength in her grin. "I'd rather you be honest with me than lie, just telling me what I want to hear." Maka takes another pull of the sweet, rich liquid and swallows. "Besides, I've been lying to myself for too long, anyway."

~O~O~O~

Retracting in clanks and scrapes of metal and plastic, the machine winds down, cutting off its electrical pulses and air-forced pressure as Medusa stands in silence. Her hollow golden eyes rimmed with red stare as once more this trial leaves no data, no improvements to note... it leaves her son still, in the deepest trances of coma, nothing but a organic part of the mechanics she's built around him.

Right now he is nothing but a mound of flesh with organs only functioning with the help of tubes and countless wires. The oxygen filling his lungs is but from a tube and canister, his inky blood is only racing through his veins with the help of ventricle assist devices keeping the heart doing its duty long past the time it would have stopped, dialysis to keep toxins from his system... But she can't stop. The doctor will overcome this hurdle, she will bring Ragnarok from that edge, will pull him from that blinding light of the other side.

She will save him.

Medusa will complete her work. The amber-orbed, braided blonde will be successful and her child will be one of the messiah's of a new world, created by her very hand, by that strong parental love and he will never have to worry about the stakes of his life. He and Crona will rise, become the first generation of a civilization without fear, without pain... They will be the first that will not be lost to the acts of cruelty.

He just needs to heal, to wake up from the pulls of mortality. He needs to move, just one finger. Show her that he is on his way to that precipice, climbing through the depths from the bottom of the unimaginable mountain to the top and into blessed consciousness. She needs this from him, she needs him to struggle.

She needs him to fight for life just as she is for him.

A pitiful breath escapes her parted lips, whispering past the dried salt and chap and she begins walking away, sparing a longing glance behind her before opening and locking the door behind.

The hall is silent, empty, clean and veritably spotless and she inhales the biting scent of bleach and antiseptic, pausing to enjoy it, to savor the one thing that she can control in absolute. Slight tremors in her limbs cease, the cloud in her mind lifts and she opens her eyes to the luminous space surrounding.

His door is open. It is a curious state and she wonders if the pinkette ever came home last night. Her feet hit the floor in silent falls, in case the boy is sleeping. The blonde moves onward, deliberate, set on finding any inkling of insolence. Did he eat? Has he abandoned her?

It feels as if time is ticking by at a snails pace that her limbs abide and she grows anxious at it. The anticipation is gluttonous, setting its course on her nerves and eating at her as the doctor slowly reaches the frame.

One look. That is all is will take. One look to determine if her boy has set out on his own, if he has decided to forget all that he's been taught in her careful confines... One small peek to gather whether or not he has escaped from her protection.

As a success, he deserves such right. But it doesn't make it any less difficult to think about.

Medusa steels herself, her normal impassive expression painting her features like a mask, covering every bit the anxiety and apprehension dwelling within and she enters the double cot room. It is void of the rose-haired boy, cot forsaken but that metal tray is... gone. So, he did return... The thought curves her lip into a smirk; not a grin, not a smile. She would not go as far to reveal her relief to anyone, not even to herself.

Closer the woman comes to the middle of the room, between both makeshift beds and equal distance from that black, reflective tablet. This space, the place where both children took their first steps, learned their first words, transformed from normal beings raised in her synthetic womb, normal infants with the genes of Franken and her own, into humans with unique gifts. This expanse is where she spent her days nurturing their extraordinary evolution, medicating and treating them. This capacity in which she spent her time with these precious boys that will one day bring the change the human race desperately needs.

In this one room she nourished her little twin dreams.

But where did he take that cart? Crona hasn't the keys to return it to storage nor would he chance pushing it down the stairs. The braided woman does a questioning twirl before her cool golden gaze lands on the open threshold of the restroom opposite of the wall of this capacity's entrance and she pads on in investigative amuse.

The toilet room beyond is as sparkling and sterile as ever, though there are things of misplace that catch her intrigue. Shining in the corner of the vast expanse, contradicting the clean white of the walls in surround, that metal cart gleams its shine in response to the lights above, its top lay bare of the food and drink that inhabited it. But what gets her attention is the crimson coated hand-towel decorating this otherwise hygienic washroom. Pinkened water is spread from the edges of the damp cloth, marring the prestige of the glittering marble counter top below. A thin flaxen brow quirks, interest piqued as her stride brings the woman closer.

Bending at the waist, braided sunny tresses falling into a straight line just barely dangling from the floor's surface, her nose takes in the familiar scent of blood. Its faint, but unmistakable. She has smelled the same over many experiences, she'd know it even if it was among pennies and dirt. But it's red. Medusa knows, oh does she know, that Crona's has taken a darker turn. An irreversible turn, she's quite sure, which only itches at her curiosity more.

Whom has the boy met? The doctor knows her child more than even he knows himself; he is a shy, timid creature whom can barely even speak to herself. Just who is this person that he so willingly brought here and how did that person manage to break the ever-present apprehension in the rosette enough to have him help?

She isn't quite sure, but the way that her chest is thumping she can tell that maybe, just maybe the next and last stages of her plans are near... Or, at least, well on their way. In any case that may be, Medusa will not be the one to interfere with her own life's work. She will not hinder her child's relations and certainly will she not show that she knows.

The way that the boy fears her, the way that he obeys without question and accepts her words as is... He would probably disengage if he knew that she knows. He would be scared that she may be disapproving of it, when it is just the opposite.

No. The doctor leaves the room untouched, that smirk wanting to widen into a smile that shouts her unspoken joy. Her child has found connection to the world beyond her experiments and she will not taint his progression.

~O~O~O~

They are staring. Every single person around them throws glances their way. Dirty ones filled with malice and dislike, of fear and disgust. These looks both scare the boy and make him want to yell at the top of his lungs... Because, he knows. He's aware they aren't looking at him but past him to the girl at his side.

He's shaking, but it's not from the adrenalized anxiety coursing through his veins, nor is it the anger that is racing neck and neck alongside it. That disconnected dullness is marring the beautiful green of her eyes while she smiles, obviously trying to ignore them all. The tension is thick as they walk through the parting bodies in this department store, whispering vulgar obscenities that don't accurately describe Maka.

It's funny. Absolutely hilarious that they look and speak of her in such a monstrous way when they are the abominations. These people whose faces are twisted with hideous intent, whose words are the very depiction of evil. They are demons that prey on the lonely, pure soul that this girl has. But they are ignorant! They have no fucking idea that they are the ones to be mocked. They are the ones that need to be caged and bled, to be disemboweled and laughed at, studied and judged like the animals that they are proving themselves to be!

He snickers, it catches in his nose and the pinkette snorts. Maka stops, turning to see what the teen is laughing at. He just laughs even more as the glares and scowls once set upon the blonde now feature him.

It becomes a violent, hacking laugh that rocks him from the very core, seizing his lungs in a burning ache and squeezing his ribs in stabbing stitches.

"These people have no idea!" Crona manages between barks and gasping breath. "They are so STUPID!" He yells the last word, which grants him sounds of appall from passing crowds of eye-rolling adults and stuck-up teens. He just laughs even harder at that fact.

"They think you're so evil! They think you're dirty!" He's giggling so hard that the tears blind his view and he's bent so far that he's nearly on the tiled ground. "But THEY are the filthy ones! THEY are the LIARS!"

The confounded blank expressions warping the passersby's features make them look like idiots, fish out of water gasping for the liquid that continues life and their masses make the girl giggle. She sees the truth in the boy's words, and her humor appreciates the stupefied look he has created in waves. It starts modestly, behind a few fingers and grows until she leans on the tremulous frame of the boy who is barely even standing.

"Oh my god..." The girl sighs on a pause for breath before the laughter steals it away once more. "Look at them!"

"These people are so far beyond the truth they could be smacked with it and still have that dumb look on their ugly faces!" Its a gleeful whine that leaves Crona as the snickers begin to wind down, people dispersing in an array of scoffs and stomping, swinging feet, bumping into each other like cattle being corralled to various points of the shopping plaza as some pop song plays in the air from overhead speakers.

Wiping the damp from his ducts, the rosette sucks in oxygen in deep, cleansing pulls; Maka does the same.

She has no opinion on their slumped form in the middle of the floor of this massive hallway lined with fake plants and open storefronts and none on the people that seem to refuse to look their way as they pick themselves up. It's strange and... enlightening. Never once did she think that someone finding amusement in her predicament would be so... refreshing. But it is and the blonde has to admit, it is like a weight has been lifted. The weight of her father and every ounce of hopelessness his debts and gossip left her.

This boy, he is utterly bizarre, off-beat and generally... Maka likes it. She likes it a lot, the girl decides as she muses over the thought with a parted smile and absent gaze.

"I'm sorry, I made a scene." Crona is blushing, he can feel those emerald pools washing over him, covering him with an overly enjoyable heat. "It just kind of happened."

"Huh?" The blonde girl blinks, snapping back into the present, receding from inner thought. "Nah, its cool. Besides, their reactions were pretty epic." Grabbing his hand in hers, they begin to make their way around the mall, past trinket shops and noxious candle scents. A kiosk vendor of skin care products steps aside, saving his sales pitch for someone behind the pair as sunglasses and hats behind glass and children's clothes and shops with bright pink walls blur in their peripherals.

It was a risk, a chance Maka took in coming here, feeling empowered with Crona's words from earlier. 'Then we will', huh? The onyx walls and ruby pillars, spotlights and mirrors reflecting their glow seemed ominous at first but with every stride deeper across glittering cream tile, every click of sneakers and flip-flop she eases, that tickle of dismay lodged in the center of her chest dissipates more and more. The young woman squeezes her new friend's palm and he jolts a little, but she can see a nervous smile from the corner of her eye.

"You ready?" The blonde stops walking suddenly, faceless mannequins in alluring positions showcasing fashionable pieces for both men and women greet the two among jewel scattered pedestals behind a store window.

"Y-Yes!" With a serious brow and set jaw, Crona nods with determination. She gives an airy laugh and shakes her head a few times.

"Alright!" Maka thrusts a finger yonder, leaning for dramatic effect which is foiled slightly by the stinging in her wrist but she grimace-grins through the pain. "Pants time!" Forward they march, well the blonde marches and the boy follows a little slower, taking his time to move his feet as if they have been glued to the spot.

When the girl ducks behind a rack of apparel, he gets the hint and does it as well once they finally enter, away from the eyes of cashiers behind white, curvy counters and clerks at glass cases filled with jewelry. Crona is a bit of an awkward squatter, trying to hide his height behind a rack of clothes only reaching about four feet, but he manages curling around the circular displays and slithering like the blonde through them, near the wall of the shop.

Maka begins to rummage, hangers of plastic and metal scrape against the bars as she slides them along, looking for widths and lengths that seem a plausible match to the pinkette swaying unbalanced at her side.

"Stay here." She whispers the command to the boy as she sinks into the curtain of clothes like Jack Dawson into the dark and chilly Atlantic Ocean, with just a finger to her lips shushing any possible protest.

His legs are shaky, this position compromising what stability his spread limbs would have gained is completely wrecked by his hunched lean that leaves the boy teetering on his toes centimeters this way and that. The rosette stiffens, bracing for a fall in either direction. But even with the high expectation, he squeals at a sudden lift of his robe and the heavy folded cloth that caresses him in a way that he never imagined could feel the way it does.

"I can't fit this in my bag, I need you to hold it between your legs." Maka's hushed voice comes from the depths of clothes and the explanation soothes his frazzled nerves a bit. "Please? I would do it, but my skirt is short and your robe is longer."

"O-Okay." The word is strained, pushing the limits of whisper and scream as he tries to move his legs closer together around the article of clothes. His respiration intensifies in a mystifying mix between utter terror and unbridled excitement as the garment moves further up his thighs, closer to a place even he has never touched outside of shower.

It gets to a certain point that his body spasms on its own and his thighs clench around the cloth and soon tan and emerald peek through curtains of blouses and trousers, birthing Maka into the shop from the various fabrics, like a fairy from a flower's bloom. Only, volumes less majestic.

"I'm sorry it took so long, I had to clip off the ink-tags." She breathes once fully emerged. "Be careful, okay? I've got most of it in my bag," Maka darts her orbs from the full looking sack back up to him and his slowly paling face. "But I couldn't get it all."

It is so hard, so very hard to maneuver the way they did as they first entered and the article pressing ever-so-gently against his man-bits rub foreign, enjoyable tickles that make it difficult to try and stand straight once they have made their escape. But with few deep breaths and glances around to make sure no one else is looking, the girl grabs at the protruding lump of clothes from through the silk of his gown and gently lifts the back enough to let it fall into her waiting palm. With a grinning thanks, she drapes it over her weighty bag.

Lacing her fingers with his clammy digits, she pulls him along and he follows without qualm. More stores of targeted attire and interesting looking toys, electronics and greeting cards pass by at a dizzying pace as the blonde darts through parting bodies and around fake foliage, turning a corner and then another until they stop at a door with a stick figure family and a poorly designed wheelchair on a plaque that is in front of them.

"Come on." The girl drops his hand to push the barrier's lever down, but her heat is still present, radiating the phantom feel even as his palm cools with its leave.

"Alright, Maka." He can't meet her gaze, embarrassed by all that has happened in such a short time, but shuffles through the open door, into the darkness until she fills it with light with a flip of a switch and a turn of the lock.

The blonde lifts the strap of her purse from over her head, disentangling her pigtails before handing the pinkette its hefty entirety and turning around to face the wall. He stares at it in confusion, head cocked and brows pinched. It's silent among them, this small room with glinting toilet and matching sink, nautical tiles too small to have been laid without immense frustration and headache.

Maka gives him a few moments, but still there is no movement. No rustle of the bag, no zipping... Just silence. Maybe he doesn't know what she wants? Maybe he doesn't want her in here?

"I can leave if you would feel more comfortable trying on the clothes by yourself." She tilts her chin to her shoulder, not enough to see but just enough so that the rosette can hear her clearly.

"N-No... I-It's okay. I don't mind, you aren't looking." A mute thud signals the blonde that he has put the bag on the floor and a whish tells her that he's picked up the shirt from the top, but the stuffy drawl from his stuttered words informs her of the most pressing issue, he's upset about something and his sad sound tugs her mouth into a frown.

"What's wrong?" Maka asks. Maybe he doesn't like what she grabbed, then? Is he afraid that she's trying to change him? Because if that is the case, he can keep wearing the gown, she doesn't mind it in the least... The blonde only wanted to make things easier for him to maneuver through town comfortably. She thinks he's fine any way that he wants to be and this would only be one less experience he gets to have, but it's minor and really doesn't matter too much.

"I-It just sucks not knowing if Ragnarok has gotten to come to a place like this... Or even if he has gotten to wear something besides this thing."

"It must be hard." The blonde nods, that downward simper still very present on her face. She can feel his anguish with every sniffle, it makes her chest hurt. There's a breeze at her ankles as something falls to the floor. "Being separated with the one person you've been with since birth. I'm so sorry..."

It is a little loose, but the black, light-weight cotton sleeves perfectly line his arms and the buttons give the shirt a nice finish, swirling shades of grey shining from each small, rounded latch. The boy leaves it loose at the neck, it feels like it is strangling him much like a breathing tube before properly placed so he unbuttoned the upper three and sighs at the relief.

"I just wish I could find him. I just want to know he's okay, to see him with my own eyes." Crona explains as best he can while crouching over her bag, sifting for the bottom half of this outfit while open air meets his most sacred parts, barely covered by the hem of his newly procured shirt. His cheeks burn as the sob sticks in his gullet.

"I'll help you find him." Maka doesn't know why she said it, but the heavy promise left her lips quicker than she could even think about it. She hears his gasp from behind and can tell it means much to him just to hear it, so she lets the words stick.

"You mean it? Like, really mean it?" There's a hope in his pitch that cuts through his soggy tone and she has no choice but to agree. That small bit of happiness made a shiver run through her, her pulse quickened... it is nice and she's clinging to that feel.

"Yeah... You'll see your brother again." She's smiling to herself, that warmth in her chest is spreading, filling the void left by so many with just this one boy and her want to help. Her gratefulness to his companionship, his defense against the damned judgement from everyone else. Him, in general.

"Okay, I'm done." A final zip and a hook through its hoop and Crona rises, palms flattening the shirt over the top of his khaki trousers. Maka turns and as her orbs take the boy in, her mouth parts and brows lift in pleasant astonishment. "W-What do you think?"

"Wow." Her mouth is stuck in the 'o' form, the blonde can't find any other words. None come to her blank mind as she just eats up the sight like a starving, rabid raccoon.

"Is it bad?" How is he supposed to handle that face, that comment? Is that a 'Wow, you look terrible!' or... 'SHE WANTS THE D!' That mental vociferation offers vehemently. No. It's probably not that. He knows he looks weird! This isn't the type of thing he's used to, he probably looks like a drowned rat in the shirt and the pants' color is probably horrible with his complexion-

"NO!" The blonde blurts, a hand up to shield her from the fantastic sight just enough to gather her senses. "You look great! Sorry, you just look really good in that." Dropping her arms, their eyes lock on each other. Blue and green; shocked and utterly, unspeakably delighted. She cracks a smile as a giggle busts through. He's trying to hide a self-pleased grin with a twitching, pressed line at his lips and the very picture makes her laugh a little more.

The girl notices his straighter posture at her comment, his shoulders are still curled but he is not folding in on his self as much and she just shakes her head, enjoying his small leap in confidence as she bends to retrieve her bag, closing it and putting it back in its proper place.

"What do you want to do with this?" Pointing to the puddle of ebony silk, the blonde teen asks.

"We can leave it." The rosette replies, goofy grin fully unleashed.

"Huh." Nodding in assent, the door is pushed open and the pair file out. "Alright then... Onward!"

"Where are we going now?" He's excited. He can't hide it in the pitch of his voice, nor does he even want to. If just clothes can make Maka look at him in that way, making his heart skip beats and his flesh tingle in both cool and heat, Crona is up to any activity she may pick next.

"You'll just have to wait and see~!" The girls feet start going and it's a little difficult for him to keep up as she speeds along and his sandals slide, but he manages as the hall turns into an open conjunction of flowing, walking bodies going different directions on either side and they slip in. The area clears as a mother and her little girl quicken their steps and ultimately stop ahead, along the wall and shop window, teens scoot from their sides to give the pair a wide berth while behind the scattered crowd moves slower.

Maka no longer seems to care about the others, that light still brightening those emerald pools as far as the pinkette can tell from the few times she's looked back to make sure he was still with her, and when she grabs his hand to keep him close and not lost to the sea of hesitant onlookers at their hind it is like his whole body flushes, goosebumps breaking out on all possible areas of his skin.

Because this, being with her as she smiles and her small fingers wrap around his own; the way she laughs at the things he says or what he does... It's all so normal. In this moment, with her, even in this wary crowd, he feels like he belongs. Maka makes him feel this. Her loneliness called to his own at first and her shine warms him, beating away the cold void Ragnarok's disappearance left him with, giving him this person, a friend. A gift.

Her flaxen tails bounce and whip in forefront the blurring colors and luminescent blobs of passing businesses. Strong scents flood his nostrils with their ferocity only to fade as their footfalls lead them forward, but he only sees her.. This girl whom has promised him this companionship and to help him find the only other one to hold that position. His brother.

Maka slows, her head craning with a longing expression and he checks to see what has her attentions. Posters of characters he has never seen before block most of what's behind, but he can still make out those wonderful rectangular covers and multiple spines with titles too small to make out as they fill the many shelves in orderly lines by the thousands. Men and women, teens and children alike stop in their tracks as they crack open a novel to peruse the many mysterious pages within their desired selection.

The pinkette can't help but to be a little envious of the tots with brightly colored picture books and the joy written clearly across their faces as their mother reads to them from it, sitting on the pilled carpet of the small store. That's something he never thought to have, never knew he wanted. But now that he has seen it, he would give anything to go back in time and have that sort of relationship with Ragnarok and Doctor Gorgon, a normal family... Like those little boys and that woman and her husband, with the messy drawings and fully stocked refrigerator. The one he poisoned... A family like the one he killed.

He tears his face away just as Maka scans the rounded end of the hall, her small 'ah-ha!' breaking the boy from the bad seeping into his mind from his very memories.

"I found it!"

_**A/N:**__ Honestly, I was going to make this chapter longer and at least finish out this venue scene... but... I'm tired and I don't really know when the next time I will be able to type will be. :/ I hope you enjoyed this, even just a little. Take care, you all!_


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of its characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people.

**Chapter 10:**

Shoes.

They are all around, in stacked rows and neat columns of different colors and brands and styles. Comfortable, sleek, minimalist and gaudy; they surround the two crouching in the aisle, like friendly giants offering pass through an impossible canyon. It is like a dream come true. At least, it is if the ones you were used to were worn and useless, or not even in existence. Which, in both teen's case, yes. Just, yes.

Somehow, both pinkette and blonde managed entrance in hush, ducking behind ostentatious, flashy displays and racks of overly expensive clothes, house-wares and bedding, finally arriving at the dream-laden shelves, beyond the visions of watchful associates. The camera's, on the other hand, is a different story entirely. But in all honestly, Maka isn't worrying about that right now.

Because, if they wanted to arrest her, they would have sent security to pick her up by now. But they won't, it would cause a scene and probably dramatically affect sales and profit. They see her as a walking disease, a plague and scar on society. It doesn't bother the blonde, not with this boy at her side looking in wonder at the footwear in his surround. Crona is with her and she will make sure he has a set of Sven he can call his own.

Carpet fibers of wiry coal and red dig at the girl's bent knees as she stretches, reaching out and choosing a selection of thick, flat-soled onyx skate shoes with splashes of achromic, stretch laces and matching design plaques on either side; sizes ranging upward from nine plus. Mostly, the colors seem to pair with the boy naturally, so she goes with gut instinct, gathering boxes as the foot-shields clonk and thump, rustling wrapped in pallid paper inside cardboard cages.

The blonde is eager to see his reaction to the simple comforts a good pair of shoes can give, memories of trying on new pairs for school and such over the years flood her mind... It makes Maka sad that he's never gotten to experience such a small joy. She wants to give him this much, at least. She wants him to feel what it is like to wear clothes, to not feel like he is so exposed, constantly at ready to have his vitals taken, or whatever else his 'doctor' performed on the boy.

She is not his mother. The female will never intentionally hurt him, he is not a project. Crona is a person, a wonderful one at that. She wants him to feel safe, secure... Complacent. And in a sense, that starts from the outside, working its way in. If she's being completely honest, this... This guarding assurance into commonness... It's just as much for her, as well.

It feels good to help this boy, nice to have a companion in which to converse. Amiable company that doesn't run for the hills at the sight of her. He makes her feel whole, more than just the shell of a girl everyone else left to rot.

"Try some on, see which ones fit." She says with a genuine smile as his cerulean orbs stare at her in helpless confusion, like that of a puppy in the huge, wide-world for the first time. Timid, adorable and curious all rolled into an innocent expression that one can only call, 'Crona.'

"Here." Realizing that he probably has no clue where to start, Maka takes the initiative with one palm pushing the teen's chest, knocking him from his kneel into a plopping, forced sit while the other tugs at one of his sandals, removing it with smooth ease. His toes curl and unravel a few times, undoubtedly reacting to the chilly air's sudden blast upon foam-warmed pads. His chest heats immediately beneath her fingertips as he yips at the impact.

The blonde whips her head around, pigtails like whips at her face as she scans the heights, looking dutifully for that tell-tale box, finding it soon after, above. Ripping it from its wired cinctures, she pulls from the flimsy pack two sheer stocking socks and tosses the thick, paper container behind without caution. She doesn't care about the mess she may make nor the looks of reproach the girl would get if she's caught. She's far beyond that now; it seems such a frivolous vexation that Maka can't quite grasp.

Digits like conscientious lightening, the blonde slips one sorry excuse for a sock onto the boy's petite foot and gestures for the other to be given over to her service, to which, in jittering scramble, he obliges. His own hand plucking the flip-flop from its perch in preparation of her silky covering.

When she opens the first box of sneakers and tries to slither it over the rosette's delicate human hooves, it doesn't fit. Shoe after shoe, half-sizes up fail one after the other until the one gleaming moment shines, much like a fairy tale, the foot-covering slips on with ease, victory blazing in the form of parted lips and brightened eyes. Quickly, the other sole is decorated in its pair.

"Stand up and tell me how they feel, okay?" She's trying not to grin like an idiot but it is still happening. Seeing the look of unfettered, wondrous bliss sparkling in those azure depths is quite the sight to behold. Silly, cute and ultimately nostalgic. Absently, she runs an index digit along the ridges of Sven, remembering that refreshing feel of cloud and godly hands caressing the strain from her soles.

"Oh-Ohhh~!" The pink-haired teen seems to purr as he makes his wobbly way into a stand. Maka flushes scarlet down to her pits at the sensualized sound, so very velvety and different from his usual shaky tone.

The sandals were nice feeling, don't get him wrong, but this... This is on an entirely different level. Masses of cushion beneath both ball and sole, even the tender arch is being wrapped in downy support, sending hot and cool sparks straight from his root to the boy's very core and cascading falls of shivers down his spine make him feel like he is melting, thawing as if going from frigid capacity into direct sunlight. There are really no comprehensible words to describe this incredible sensation, just the pleasurable moans that escape his lips without thought.

Tapping and testing the footwear only cements this assessment, his orbs roll in greet to the backs of their sockets. Only a small cough catches his attention, to which he flinches, puffing out a lingering happy sigh in short squeal. Maka kneels in front of him, so small from his vantage, red in the face with emerald pools everywhere but on him.

She almost can't get enough of his sounds. The way they click and roll in his throat, breathy and deep, yet grit and barely there. She can't look. She can't otherwise she would end up staring, probably drooling and honestly, that doesn't sound too appealing. So, Maka just listens. Closely. Body ten degrees hotter than it was when it was just the flip-flops.

"I-I didn't do anything strange did I?" Suddenly Crona spouts, hopping back into a quick sit to inspect the girl's countenance further. "Are you okay? Is this too much? We can go back if you want."

The female nearly falls over when he addresses her and those delicious little moans disappear in a wave of his frantic concern. Does she look like she has a fever or something? Well, maybe it is a little true. She is still, by all accounts, a hormonal teen that has not been intimate in any sense of the word since... Ahem, too long to remember clearly. Even her smut reading was cut short!

Don't judge her.

"No, no. Everything is fine." It is, oh it is. She's a bit heady from the experience, maybe a little woozy, but alright none-the less. "So..." Finally granting herself sight of the pinkette, Maka ticks a brow and purses her lips in a knowing question, wanting to hear in his own words how he feels about the sneakers. "Do they fit well?"

"Oh yes." His answer leaves him in breathy repose, inciting a snicker from the blonde to which he gives a tottering grin.

What is it about this guy that is so cute? Is it his inexperience? His innocently straight forward answers? The way he stutters and stumbles over his responses? Those sadly expressive eyes and those pouty lips? All of this? Yeah, most likely.

He is unlike anyone Maka has ever met, which is a good thing. He is real; true to himself, to her. He hasn't had a reason to develop deceptive double sides like everyone else. He has never needed to. His pureness is... precious. Refreshing.

"Haha, Come on." Stealthily but shaking from captive giggles, Maka collects Crona's discarded flip-flops from the rough matting, replacing them in her bag for safe keeping before crawling off toward the end of the aisle, heels of her palms and knees moving in tandem while the boy takes cue and matches pace as they leave behind toppling boxes in disarray.

The blonde doesn't know exactly where she is going, but she doesn't care. Crona is behind her, following her and... isn't it nice just to be spontaneous? Shouldn't they just do that, move until they find something interesting and then jump at the opportunity. Besides, it is almost enough just to have the boy near. After all the crap she has had to bear alone, just having someone she can turn and see is worth more to her than all the free food in the world or cool air or clean beds. So onward they go, in search of excitement. An adventure in the mall.

Avoiding the suspicions of teens standing around at their first jobs, once more they camouflage themselves behind event displays depicting summer time play things and designer fashions for affordable prices, at the sides of mattresses and through circular curtains of tiny infant clothing that is so cute and miniature that it should be illegal. Finally, they reach one of the store's alternative egress, flattening at its outer wall and toeing sideways until clear of the place.

Somehow, without any real directional inspiration the exit leads the two to a wide-spread, fairly packed hall, wafting and swirling with a cornucopia of mouth-watering scents that tickle and tease the nose and stomach.

"Mmm." The blonde hums her approval absently, feet moving of their own will as she follows the tip of her sniffer. A hand at her own keeps her from going any further and only then does she notice anything aside from the delicious smell.

"Maka?" Nervously, the rosette's shaky timbre reaches her ears. There is a crowd of bodies, forming what looks to be a human wall; once-passing shoppers halt in their pace to stop and stare, their whispers loud and overlapping, like an evil chant or prelude to contact with spirits in a horror flick.

It's horrifying, how they stand in unity, no spaces left between torso and limb as sets upon sets of eyes bore into them. Angry greys and fearful brown, accusing blues and nauseated greens, hazels of all shade filled with a motley of burning emotions that run icy chills down the girl's back.

It shouldn't bother her. Hell, they just dealt with this less than a couple hours ago! But this is unnerving, they stare at them both, spreading whatever gossip they want in screaming quiet, stopped dead in the halls. Waiting for something, expecting some sort of freakshow they are all so sure that she will deliver.

Should she give them what they want? Would it do any good to say something? Yell at the top of her lungs the things they won't listen to anyway? They are all so keen to hear what the others have to say, her words are meaningless; they would fall on selectively deaf ears.

Pulling her arm upward and catching the boy's hand instead, Maka grasps him tight, hoping that the contact will give her some sort of ease; something other than the growing nausea and tunnel vision or the phantom stinging pricks present all along her flesh.

Fuck the food and this crowd. The girl just wants to leave, to be free of this judgement and crippling snarls. She doesn't want to be here anymore, what fun could have been had is now gone with this horde's presence. The adventure has fled from this place and the two must move on.

He squeezes back, it lacks a definite amount of pressure and feels more like gripping a pulse but still, it reminds her that he is there. Crona is there and even with these people at her opposition, they both stand against this disgruntled group.

The blonde has to fight through her shock, she has to battle these demons in which every one of those ignorant bodies thinks she possesses. Maka has to have courage to face this head on. Not tucking her chin, not looking to the ground, not with self-pity and certainly not with blame.

No.

One footfall in front of the other. Boys and girls, men and women, teens and their pre's, they all mesh, running together in messy lines and spidery blotches, but she walks on, head held high without a blink in sight. All she needs is the heat of this palm squeezing her own and the breathing breezes that puff at the hair of her nape.

The closer they get, the more this wall disperses, centimeters and inches, weaknesses exposed as the whispered rumors begin to roar and this flash mob becomes a rally of nescience and misunderstanding.

"Whore!" Some scream, voices breaking as other hiss in disgust. "Nasty, stupid slut!"

"Worthless!" Hatred spews in broken sentences among the dense pandemonium.

"Waste of fucking space!" Only by inches do they back in unison, parting enough not to make contact, leaving just enough room for her to hear them clearly.

"...Leech!" They are hurting her ears, this rabbling turbulence from all around. It's hard to think, difficult to afford anything but her stride.

"...danger to children!" Every buzzing fracas, every accusation, every glare and sneer... Why? Why is she the scapegoat for her father or the slut that condemned him. Why is this hostile enmity for her and her alone? There are others, right? Others that actually have what they think she carries?

"You should be ashamed!" She is ashamed. She's ashamed that her Papa was unfaithful to Mama. She's embarrassed that her mother left her to deal with all of this. She's humiliated that her childhood friends would not stand by her side, not one would stand up for her. She's guilty of a meaningless life in which these people can so easily blame her to some how make themselves feel better. Maka is mortified that she lives in a world where people target others instead of discovering and rectifying the root of the issue.

"Your family ruined my life!" Well, the blonde's family ruined her life too.

"You killed my uncle!" Guilty by association, for the wrongs of the dead are passed on to their successors. Should she accept this as truth? Had she followed Spirit around, had she been more concerned with his whereabouts maybe he... Maybe he wouldn't be dead now. Maybe Kami would still be around. Maybe the old clique would still look at her without shying away, without ignoring her needs. 'Maybe' is pointless in itself. This is her fate, to be burned at the metaphorical stake.

"How could you?!" The girl's lips twitch, trying to hold back the emotions, to conceal the despair that has been eating away, taking more and more of herself every single day since the Papa's diagnosis as every swing of her legs begins to feel more wobbly and emerald pools become flooded with sheets, welling in salt which she wills not to fall. The now-blank faces and anonymous town folk still whisper, they still call out. It's all she can do just to get away.

Eventually they fade but she's blinded by their hate, consumed by their rage and the tears it has caused her. Maka's stomach clenches around the tight, heavy knot in which they created with some words even she doesn't understand. She can't help the tremors that wrack her body or the silent, hyper sobs that replace her respiration. The blonde can't help how she stumbles or the fact that her knees are weak with nerves, utter confusion rampant.

What should she do? How can this be solved? Can it? No... She's never done anything to anyone and yet the blame is her's and her's alone.

Maka has lost her mother, her father, friends and the rest of her relatives. She's lost her home and any chance to further her education. Everything that was once so accessible, at her very fingertips has been yanked away, opportunity placed behind an impenetrable barrier. The blonde has been refused job after job, living in a scorching hot park or dirty, abandoned house. She has to steal to survive.

She hates herself because everyone hates her. She hates herself because they blame her. Maka hates herself for the morals set so deep within herself that makes it impossible to feel any other way. It's the only way for her to feel. Her whole life revolved around the praises given toward her knowledge, the words of thanks handed to her by those she's helped with community service or support to her former peers.

When they pulled away and word spread through the city, when her mother left without word and her father was carted off to the hospital... When people came to reclaim everything within the house... They all took a part of her, tore a piece savagely from her until all that was left was this. A veneer of emptiness, a brittle mask covering the hollow ache; she is numbed from all the horrible things she feels at these emotions all coincide, leaving her frigid.

And for the first time, she lets the anguish that lay dormant in the frozen hollow within scald her face in slick sheets; a part of her melting, this one emotion singled out and allowing itself to be felt. Public, be damned.

They do not care about facts, they only care about themselves. Sheep that follow the displays of others in order to stand for a cause they know nothing about. They don't truly know who she is, only a name and description. They don't care about her past, they think they know everything already. Word of mouth is both an unreliable but powerful thing.

She is alone.

Her hand is dropped and vaguely she feels a palm cupping the back of her head, drawing the girl toward warmth, combating the cold. An arm snakes around her small waist and she is being pulled close to firm, flat yet sharp curves that do not belong to herself.

No. She isn't alone.

Weakly, the blonde slides her limbs around and behind Crona's shoulders. Lax is the embrace because she just can't muster anymore but she buries her face in this boy's chest, not caring that they only just met or that the rest of this mall's occupants are steadily shooting the pair dirty looks and still hollering obscenities about her life.

No. Instead, the girl lets the scents of new cotton and astringent soap, vanilla, chocolate and coffee fill her weeping senses and an undertone of brisk musk lull her. Because it is him. This boy holding onto her pathetic physique in the face of adversity. It is his scent, clean and sweet that drives the shakes from her bones and makes the bad words fall to muffled static even as he himself jitters but his rhythmic breathing guides her own into a calm that helps to shut out anyone else until all that is left is him.

He is like therapy, each contact he gives and she takes little by little repairs the damage done by the rest of the world. This budding relationship a skinship in which she needs, for no one else will touch her. No one else will hold her but him. Maka hadn't realized how vital this is; simple touches just to remind her that she is human. And by the way this diffident boy has allowed her into his personal space, no matter how skittish of anyone else he said he is...

She is the difference, an exception. She is his ease. He makes this so simple to understand, with the way his own shaking ceases; the way he breathes deep, allowing her this part of him.

She is Maka and he is Crona. This is their silent understanding. Touch and pain do not come hand in hand with each other and together they stand against an empty existence. Kindred souls in a sea of anonymous faces. His connection to life beyond the operating table and hers to her own humanity.

Crona's new shirt is soaked, sticking flat against his collar, but he doesn't seem to mind much when she finally pulls away, catching his azure depths and the darkness that has fallen over them.

"I'm sorry about that." She steps back, removing her hold so that she can wipe the embarrassing trails from her face.

"You shouldn't be." He takes back her hand, claiming her fingers with his own laced into the gaps as his flat, unnervingly calm voice sends shivers down her spine. "They will be sorry. They will all pay." Something about his words awaken a hidden excitement, an anxiousness rolled with dismay and thrilling adrenaline that coaxes a wide simper across her dampened face.

Because, he is right. One day, they all will learn and they will suffer the consequences. That's how karma works, right?

A blush paints her cheeks as her shoes tap in succession across the checkering tiles when his fingertips whisper ticklishly against the ridges and swirling lines of her palm; glass doors and concrete of the building's exit visible in full when they slide their open and the cacophony of the city beyond plays its own dissonant tune. Tires upon concrete, yelling and road rage of pulsing car horns.

None of it matters. Not the lack of color in the town or the ominous buildings filled with assholes behind glinting windows, only looking for a quick dollar. It doesn't matter that the once-united torsos and glares follow the two, pressing up against the glass in scoff as the two make their leave into the grey-scale and deep blue of sky above, toward rivers of ebon street and pale, rough sidewalk.

None of it matters because they are only feeling the speeding of beats in their chests as their digits wrap tightly, finding home in the empty spaces of the other's hand as they squeeze; a wordless reminder to the other that they are there to fill the gaps.

As the pair fade from sight, turning out of view behind wall and onto path, only one lone woman backs away from the glass with a grin upon her face. She was right. All of her apprehensions up until this very moment proved unfounded, because that girl... She found it. She found her strength and her future.

The woman is sure of this, it is how it was for herself when she was younger. That look in Maka's eye and the pacifying effect the boy had on her, it was like looking love in its purest form. It was how she and her husband used to be before... Well, just before.

She sweeps auburn locks of her wig behind her ear, strolling along the busy corridors of the shopping center and pulling a sleek cellphone from the pocket of her jeans. Her friend is bound to know already but it wouldn't hurt to call. It is almost time, anyway.

~O~O~O~

"What impeccable timing you have, darling!" Cutting off the obnoxious ringtone with a mere swipe and quick greeting, braid swinging as she stands from her chair and tucks an arm across her chest, the woman smiles into her words, glancing away from the metal table housing her unconscious lover. "I was getting rather bored."

"I see one of your boys has been granted leave, Usa! Such a sweet looking thing, too!" Squealing from Doctor Gorgon's speaker, the other line gushes making the blonde pull the flat device from her ear a ways.

"You've seen Crona?" Brushing off the horrid nick-name she never liked and the pitch that makes her cringe, Medusa asks in a breath. Try as she might, she couldn't shake the unease of knowing her child was out there, unused to outsiders' mannerisms and the way of social conduct beyond his room.

She's been curious. Of course, he did carry out a project for her and in hindsight, she really hadn't prepared him for such, so accustomed to his lacking attire, she hadn't thought to provide him with much else. He's lived his life as an anonymous entity in this city and to her, a subject constantly readying for alterations.

Is he getting by alright? Crona is practically invincible, so she cares not for potential bodily hazards. No. What she wants to know is if he is able to mesh with the crowds, how the boy is at adapting.

"-Usssssaaaaaaa! Hello? You there?" Lost in her own thoughts, the doctor vaguely remembers that she is on a call whose line is buzzing with words trying to get her attention.

"Oh goodness, I'm sorry. What was that?" Lips tilting in her hitch of ineptitude, she apologizes sincerely. "I didn't really catch all of that." Drum filling with a comforting laughter, small tensions in her neck relax.

"It's alright." Voice still trilled with giggles at the other woman's rare mental absence, she continues. "I was just surprised I recognized him at the mall. I mean, I only just saw your forward of his patient bio, so... Even more so when I saw him with Maka."

"He's with her?" How fitting, Medusa muses to herself as her simper brims with amusement.

"Yeah, I know! I just... I wanted to let you know in case you were curious. And, It's almost that time, so I'll be stopping by the hospital once Franken is back, to get my booster." The lady on the line pauses, a wave of veritable unease discernible by the shuffling sound no doubt coming from her lips being bitten and blotted. "It's begun, hasn't it? Full swing, it's growing, slowly taking over this town... They're getting scared, you know."

"I'm glad you remain on my side with this. I can't imagine what I would do if you were to fall ill as well." The braided blonde drops her arm, it hangs by her side, a loose fist grasping at nothing. "It's for a good cause. If we don't weed out the weak, the gaffe and blunders of our generation and those that came before, there can be no progress." Medusa sighs. "Humanity as a whole has proven inhumane. You know that all I want is to fix it."

"I know, Usa. I know. That's why I'm still here." The auburn bewigged female puffs out a breath before grinning into her words. "So Maka looks like she'll be the first, huh?"

"I guess so." She laughs, unable to deny such a pleasant turn of events. "But let's not jump to conclusions, they're both still young after all."

"We can still hope. Besides, I was young too~." Teasingly, the woman sings into her ear.

"You do have a point." Surrendering to a false fight she surely wouldn't win, the doctor just agrees with a shake of her pixie-styled dome.

"Hm hm!" A victorious snicker makes Medusa roll her eyes, but her simper grows. "Anyway, I've got to go for now! When Frank wakes up from the annual doo-hickey thing, tell him I'll see him for the usual, 'kay?"

"Yes, will do. Take care of yourself, dear. Stay hidden."

"Alright, alright! Don't get sappy." With that, the line goes silent.

Placing the disconnected phone back into her white coat, Medusa pads barefoot across her and her faux-brother's lab. Stein won't wake for another few hours, if her charts and hypothesis prove correct, so she has time to slip into the kitchen and start up a meal. Maybe she should prepare more than usual? Or... would that tip her son off?

Key sliding into the old lock and turning, she makes her way up the darkened stair and back into light where she navigates the curves of her home's corridors and into that lovely, clean, steel-decorated kitchen. She'll think of something, give him and his secretive guest a gift.

~O~O~O~

Sometimes his friends are amazing, Soul admits to himself with a pointed grin as he looks up at the ceiling from his lay on couch cushions. And other times, they suck. But in a good way, if that makes any damn sense.

Sharing laughs about the past, experiences with Maka from other perspectives... It's nice, but leaves behind a sour taste. Seriously, what kind of people can enjoy a person so much and then just... Abandon her. Who the hell does that?

They do. But that answer doesn't sit well with him. Though, he is helpless to do anything about it. What can he do, really? Sliding a lazy hand through his fluffy mane of white, the boy shuts scarlet pools.

He doesn't want to get sick and he doesn't want to die. Soul has too much to live for, so much left to achieve. He can't abandon his dreams, can't risk the others. He can't be like her.

That in itself makes his stomach turn in vicious spins. He will never live up to the type of student the girl was. He will never be the one to give inspirational talks or advice beyond 'dude, think about it.' He is useless and by forsaking Maka, Soul has proven to himself that he is not a man. He is not cool.

He is lacking.

His hands are bound by proper decorum, fingers meant for the piano and orchestral selections. He has university to attend and a life to live. He can't get caught up in this... Even though by walking the path ahead would mean he is following a fate that the girl helped him to achieve with her cheers and coaxes, her constant positivity when all he wanted to do was give up.

Would that be what she wants? Would continuing on be some sort of small comfort for Maka? Would it make her feel like she has accomplished something even while all her own hard work has washed away? Or, would this hurt her more? More than the group's severing of ties, more than the loneliness that this community has thrust upon her?

A growl rattles low, deep in his chest as he grits his incisorous jaw until his teeth scrape against each other with the pressure.

They have hurt her. He has hurt her. And, no matter which way it is looked at, that can never be okay. Soul can't forgive himself for something so huge, so contemptible.

But... What can he do?

When he thinks about consequences on either side, his chest aches, heart pummeling his ribs in rapid beats that feel wrong, as if pumping backward. He can't catch a breath, no matter how deep or how fast he inhales.

There is no way to fix what has been done. It is hopeless.

o.o.o

_"This shit is un-fucking-real!" Huffing, Soul shouts, walking circles in the tan and black patchwork rug in the girl's living room. "I mean, I slaved over that piece! I worked night and day, and what do they say? Definitely nothing like 'Nice job!' or 'You're improving, that's great!' NO! They just HAVE to compare me to him. 'Wesley mastered that selection in kindergarten.' 'Why do you constantly run in Wesley's shadow? Be your own person.' GOD DAMN IT! I'm trying, don't they see that? And then, just fucking icing on top of the not-good-enough cake, 'Why did you get an eighty percent on this test?'... Really?!"_

_"That's too harsh. You studied hard for that quiz... I know, I was there." Maka's hand juts out, stopping his pacing in place. "And that arrangement was brilliant. It was a twittering happy song, but you put such a deeper emotion to it, like each stroke had a perfectly balanced bitter-sweet feel. You changed the song from one of fluffy frolicks to a contemplative piece of enjoyment of overcoming obstacles. That is a talent among itself. You make music, you don't just play it, Soul. Don't let them make you feel like less than your brother."_

_In that very moment, sincere emerald captures troubled crimson, holding him prisoner. Incapacitating the boy of much more than the lingering sigh and sharply clamped jaw._

_"They don't understand me, Maka. They never will." The albino teen surrenders the words, defeated by his parents, his brother... Himself. He can't believe her words, because he has been less than his elder brother from the beginning. A failure. His weaknesses and flaws have been broadcast to his entire family lines, ingraining humiliation into his very being. No matter how much the snowy-haired boy struggles, it is not enough, will never be enough._

_His condition is a mark of shame. He is not a perfect child. He is wrong, a genetic screw up that caused his parents nothing but torment among the upper echelon. Soul is not meant for the life of an aristocrat, misplaced in the world of business and money. He is inadequate._

_"They want me to give up and that is just what I am going to do. I can't take it anymore... I-" It's hard to speak beyond the lump in his throat or through the burning sob that he'll be damned to unleash, so he swallows, a cleansing inhale to re-invoke the clarity that he was side-tracked from. "I just came to say good bye."_

_"Like hell am I going to let you leave like that. It's pathetic. YOU are SOUL. YOU don't give up. It isn't in your nature, and... WHAT the hell do they matter? Yeah, granted, they gave you life. That is about all the sway they have IN YOUR life and YOUR future. Shit, even people like I can understand your music. There are people like I whom can appreciate a deviation from the notes written on a page. There are others that can recognize when you are doing your best, because you are... FOR YOU."_

_"But you don't under-"_

_"NO! Of course I don't understand YOUR perspective. It makes sense because I AM NOT YOU. NEITHER ARE THEY, SOUL!" There is a fire in the girl's depths that cut any more of his possible excuses at the quick and he is forced into submission. She looks rabid, a snarl marring that pretty face, but even twisted, fierce and ugly as she is making it look, his heart betrays his shell-shocked mind, beating heavily for her. "Besides," the lines etched in her brow and mouth melt as she calms, softening as she lets go of the empathetic rage that burrowed within. "where are you going to go? Do you even have a plan, or were you just going to slum it on the streets?"_

_Well, shit. She hit the nail on the head with that one and he can't stop the embarrassed pink from painting his cheeks._

_"Soul? Soul! You weren't seriously going to be a box-guy, were you? You aren't the type to survive in tossed refrigerator cardboard." Those green orbs widen as she gives a disbelieving playful shove to his middle. "God, don't be stupid. You have friends, even if your family gives you shit, dude! Ask for help! I'm here, Black Star, Kid... Some one WILL help you!"_

_"But-"_

_"Damn it, Soul, NO!" She's annoyed now, a little crease in her brow deepens as she absently pulls the boy down to the cushions of her couch. She's thinking and he knows it as she stares blankly at the powered off television and her mouth purses, taking a sideways pull. "We'll figure it out. Let me help, okay?"_

o.o.o

His breathing has just barely rectified and his chest hurts. Soul feels like death, a disgrace as he lays on the couch that Maka's allowance gifted him, in the apartment that his claimed trust fund and her legal knowledge secured. He is emancipated, free of his parents' judgement and on a path destined to prove that he is his own person and not in his brother's shadow... Because of her.

He is trash. _"God, don't be stupid. You have friends, even if your family gives you shit, dude! Ask for help! I'm here, Black Star, Kid... Some one WILL help you!"_ And in her friends' case toward her, no matter how much faith she had in them all... She was wrong. They are all to blame for the blonde's downfall, himself most of all.

_**A/N: **__And there we have it Part 2 of chapter 9... Now a short chapter 10. Whatever. lol. I hope you enjoyed it! 'Til next time, lovelies!_


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater nor any of its characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people. Once more, I do not own 'Sunlight,' that right belongs to Amanda Ashley/Madeline Baker and 'Twilight Zone' is Rod Serling's.

**Chapter 11:**

This is nice.

It's comfortable and familiar here, even as the sun blazes down and the grass scratches at her thighs and shins, and rough bark an irritant at her back; Crona is at her side. The blue-eyed boy is so close, pressed into Maka by the angular roots as they squish one of her own hips with a bruising pressure. The blonde won't complain though as her mind is on the friendly atmosphere and its pacifying magical aura that encompasses them both. She just flips another page letting her digits run along paper's edge to flatten it neatly, reading aloud the story of Lainey and Micah as the pinkette scans the words over her shoulder, chin softly resting against it.

Upon re-entering the green and neon splashed play-place, with seemingly misplaced organic life oddly thriving in vivid, yet crisp, lush as they moved in hush and the crunches underfoot led both toward her tree, he did not utter a word about the blood that stained the grass in dried brown, nor did he look disgusted, a service greatly appreciated by her inner being that has been screaming from within her brain in shame and embarrassment; only stopping intermittently with the bubbling giddiness of a schoolgirl, fluttering tickles within her chest at the fact that he had stayed with her, holding her together when without him she would not currently... be. He has seen her at her worst and still... He is here.

When she had plopped down for a peaceful rest of weary limbs and possible sip of hot, plastic-contained refreshment, the tall teen had followed suit, watching her next moves with the interest of a curious puppy wondering what is to come next. Rummaging through her bag, she caught the piqued fascination sparkling in his probing cerulean orbs above darkened, ashy blush upon the flash of titled spine, one of many her small stock of pilfered books.

Without words, without even the need for such, Maka had brought it out in quiet question, letting the novel hover in the air; literary tease as it dangled from her tips, a brow lifting in good humor as her lips pursed in amusement. He smiled that wobbly smile and Maka gave in immediately, heart melting at his hopeful excitement toward her treasured, venerated literature. How could she refuse? Would she have?

No. Not at all! Fostering adulation for prose is an art, a duty to colorful imagination, whet and honing the mind's synapses, making for an intelligible, inquiring mind that craves more; More lives to live, more searing empathetic pangs, more tingling emotional connect... More.

Even now, voice a mesmerizing and hypnotic force catapulting them through dimensions where her tone and the type upon page become movie-like in esscence as the sun begins its descent, casting the world in a burnt-golden glow. His drafty gasps at surprising conflict mingle with her own -though she has read the same scenes countless times before. Experiencing the book with Crona is... enchanting. His appreciation, the way his breath changes, hitches, unsettled whines that grate in his throat and the melodic happy sighs that come from his very soul; the rosette's reactions bring to life a story that otherwise made her scoff, the reality lost in a premise she perused before delving into the flowing paragraphs.

Reading to the boy like this... It is a euphoric feeling that the girl has never once felt before. Crona doesn't interrupt, doesn't laugh at her mistakes or the oddities within the tale; he sits in rapture, his warmth elevating her own, making Maka want to carry on forever just to bask in these heady, twittering feelings, enjoy this novel like motion picture, to absorb fully the varying sounds of the male at her side.

But soon, the words wind down to a single string of letters and she is left in silence, companionable as her tongue curls around the halting, last syllable and the end-cover is swiped its shut. A gentle repose filled with reflective, soft simpers, orbs still filled with the dwindling fog of 'Sunlight''s world.

"I," brushing stray rosy strands back behind his ear, the boy begins, voice wavering with its hours of unuse, "... I never thought listening to a story would be l-like... Like that..."

And his statement rings true. Crona has listened to many an audio-book, but has never been quite so engulfed; transfixed to the point where he would hearken without break, without bore. This intimacy, putting sweet voice to the black and white text, it is as if Maka had claimed the pages, making them her own; each rustling turn the only physical evidence that her mark upon the novel lived only in his still-stunned mind.

"Heh," her smile widens, blonde tendrils swaying in the short warm gust, catching in the ridges at her back like a silken, wheat web. " I agree. And really, this is the first time I've ever gotten to read a book the whole way through for someone. That and it really is a pleasant change from just leafing through it myself."

"Yeah..." Azure depths skit away, darting as the rosette's voice seems to fade. His mind flashes with the few times he has wanted to share a story with his brother and ended up alone, poring over digitized pages in quiet because Ragnarok hadn't interest in the genre for its lack of explosions and boobs. It just wasn't the raven-haired boy's thing. But that's okay, it only makes the story they've just enjoyed that much more special. Crona's lips tug in a curling grin, a faint heat resonating beneath his cheeks.

"Oy~!" Maka stifles a yawn as she leans forward, rifling through her overstuffed purse, making room for the tome and puts it away, zipping back up the plump bag. "I didn't realize it was getting so late." Savoring the company and her favorite past time stole most of the light from the sky and she is being hit with the lethargy of earlier, full force. The blonde just wants to fall asleep, to erase the weight from her lids with surrendered abandon and to let her mind drift with the wind into the darkening sky.

But... She doesn't know what she should do. The girl knows she wants to stay near this boy whom has given her one of the best days in a long time, after nearly losing herself to her... self. Would that really be okay, though? Can she really allow herself to use his kindness? He said he wants her to, but... What if he's just being nice?

"You're tired?" Crona's voice breaks through her train of thought, such a soft and airy tone that wraps around her straining senses like a warm blanket on a cold night, chasing the chill from her flesh in place of sweet, all-encompassing heat that cascades like rippling falls upon her. She blinks, willing her depths to open once more and when she is able to focus again, the rosette is standing. He isn't looking at her, his right hand is loosely gripping his left arm but his free palm is held out. He is waiting for her to take it, to follow him. The darkening of his features and that innocent, lip-bitten, upward simper is enough for her; enough for her to make her decision, fingertips sliding delicately over the velvety hand and embracing it.

"Yeah, maybe just a little bit." Because, this boy is different. He isn't just telling her that he wants her around, just to be nice. Crona is genuine.

"Th-Then we should head back." His sky-like pools swing back in meet with lidded forest green as he gently helps to pull the female into a stand, cautiously dropping his own arm in order to cup her elbow, supporting the injured limb she didn't even realize she put to use until her digits were already set and sting had taken her nerves in gasp-inducing capture. Maka coughs, turning her chin in attempt to cover her blunder.

"Will it really be okay, though?" Once on her own two feet, she pauses, needing to hear it again in his own words. The girl needs her insecurities allayed, questions answered. "I mean, you've got your... doctor and all." She had to force the word 'doctor' in place of 'mother,' the double syllables like a constipated grunt.

"I want to know you'll be okay." Maka is almost ashamed that she asked. He sounds so... lost, hurt even, the gravelly whisper almost akin to thickness before tears. "I've lost so much already and I just found you... I don't want to lose you, too."

'God, this is a vomit-fest of sticky, candied angst.' The phantom voice scoffs faintly through the depths of Crona's conscious mind, catching him off guard but helping to twist the ache in his chest. The rosette looks away from her, toward the towering edifice, just beyond fences of iron and wood, streaming ebon road and cement; at that house missing his loud other half. The blonde swallows, a tiny puff leaving her lips at the intensity brewing behind the boy's loaded words.

"Alright." In a mock sigh and ginger tug at him as the girl moves onward, Maka slices through the tension, bared blades of satire and toothy smirk melting away the male's lofty melancholic longing. "Sounds like a good enough reason to me, just as long as I don't have to hide in a closet or something like that. I have a thing about being in small spaces."

He stumbles in trail, trying to keep up, to alleviate the pressure her pull on his palm must be causing, head agog and spinning at the insinuation that he would even think to stuff her in such a small and dark place, meant for towels and cleaning products; the only place in his rooms swept away from the piercing light, not meant for sight, only for function.

Wow... It is dark in there. Huh. Crona never really gave the little nook much thought before, with all the times he's shot venomous glare and sneer toward the vile, fluorescent bulbs, derisive of his need of dim on many restless nights. They would burn his sockets as his younger self would stare into them, held up by the itchy cloth of the cot at his back, lids heavy, but orbs surrendering to unmitigable pulls of insomnia by way of vexatious, ever-enduring effulgence.

He would never subject Maka to that dark, cramped place... But himself, on the other hand, is an entirely different scenario. It might just be a nice change, instead of the spacious, empty room of white, blaring reminder of how blank and unfulfilled he and Ragnarok were; He could use the closet and mound the linens inside like blankets, closing himself off from that oppressive expanse in favor of cozy, calignous hiatus. The rosette's eyes are wide, his teeth showing through a grin that pains the muscles of his cheek and faintly, almost far off, he hears the whine of metal just as a snicker releases uncouthly from his nose.

All of these years and there was an answer to the tiresome light right in front of him! How stupid can he have been this entire time? C'mon! It is ridiculous how just a simple scan of his limited surroundings would have given him that much!

Wait... Would he even need to hide? To get away from the silence and light now that this blonde girl is with him? She'll be there to converse, to read with like today... And he is free. Now at liberty to exit that prison, allowed into the city beyond without lock or barrier. So, this information is ultimately pointless! Just a worthless tidbit that came too little too late. A shame, really.

Gate swinging shut behind her and the boy, Maka throws a skeptical glance over her shoulder. The strangely placed glee reminding her of an inside joke of which she isn't a part of narrows her stare in silent warning. "You won't, right?"

The pinkette tenses, pausing in absent step without her pull as he yips, oddly stretched smile falling as Crona is taken aback, coming to from his mental ramblings to the vision of slit green and cocked, suspicious brow peering at his tremorous form over a grey cotton-clad arm.

"W-What?"

"So you were planning on it." Maka gives a horribly fake gasp, her terrible rendition of panic a natural reaction once he spasms back into present and she becomes jocosely aware he hasn't the slightest clue as to what she said.

"What was I planning, Maka?! Tell me!" Shaking, unsure of whether he was talking to himself the entire time or if he said something wrong, he practically screams at her, catching himself mid-way with a jolted squeal and finishing with a yelling whisper. Did he say something wrong? Was something he said misconstrued monstrously, making the blonde mad or scared or sad. Gah! Whatever it is, he didn't mean it! The pinkette flinches, his posture curling further into himself as he awaits his truth to be delivered by his blank-faced, unreadable companion.

"It is terrible."

"Mm-hmm!" Rosy locks flap as Crona nods his head, accepting whatever his fate may be with clenched lids and overly dramatic grimace.

"Despicable."

"Hm!" Once more his dome flops rapidly, exuberant agreement to that he doesn't know to which Maka bites back a chuckle with line-pressed lips and a ticking muscle beneath lively green depths.

"I'm just kidding." A few bobbling nods break from his neck before he stops, worried azure cracks open, one after another in timid hesitation. She's laughing at his pitiful little pout and puppy eyes that seem to shout 'How could you!' He's so adorable, it's hilarious! She's wheezing, her muted guffaws puff out like whistles.

Maybe it's just her tired mind that makes his cute, gawky fumbling humorous or maybe its just him that puts her in such a good mood. Whatever it is... She feels amazing. And as she clutches at her stomach with her free hand, she lifts her other to wipe at the tears forcing themselves from her ducts, Crona's palm still firmly entwined with her own.

He's utterly baffled, feeling silly once Maka erupts in breathy, jovial jerks at her own mysterious joke. But witnessing such glee coming from her happily lined face and the way her eyes sparkle with wetness not caused by despair, his pout falters, lips pulling upward, even though he is fighting to keep his moue, if only for the sake of her amusement.

He likes this. Partial to that sound of rasping whispers, so beyond sound in their force and the flushing scarlet that decorates her gap-smiling face. He adores the way she looks at him, with a warmth he has never known before; so different from his own mother's glacial, calculating cynosure or Ragnarok's annoyed flare of varying degrees.

She's radiant, like a sun foreground a sparkling night sky outshining the very stars in her surround and sending palpitations to the organ within his constricting, titillated chest. Even as she gasps for breath, gluttonous gulps and squeal-laden sighs warping her sounds to that of gracelessness, his reception of Maka only grows, greatens, doing nothing but to strengthen an solidify the impression.

And, such a mighty impression it truly is.

Never once had he the want to be as intimately engrossed in someone before he formally met her. In those weeks prior to speaking, he always wondered what she would be like, though he did not expect it would turn out like this. This emotion he's been thrust into without warning, this overwhelming need to commit her smiles to memory and watch the bouncing of her bright emerald pools; this foreign contentment, Crona never thought would ever be afforded to him... Nonexistent, but living. A creature of science, not one of man. But within just mere days, this blonde has given him, an experiment, a precious gift of bliss. He can only hope to return the favor, for as long as this girl will allow.

"Ha~, ha~..." Lungs finally cooperating amidst winding down from her randomized chuckles, she breathes in vocal sighs, straightening back up, inch by inch. "Man, I'm tired." She giggles once more, but it's light, drafty. "Sorry, I'm kind of in my 'weird place.' For some reason, my mind wandered off thinking that you would stuff me away in the closet. And then your face!" The girl snorts, not letting it get any further than that, Maka clears her throat.

"N-No!" Pink brows knitting in appall, azure orb widen in blatant protest. "I would never...!"

"I know, I know." Shrugging, a lazy, wobbly simper raises her crimson, blushing cheeks in plump. "I just couldn't help myself. Well~!" With a spinning tilt of her chin, the blonde seems to glide across the gritty sidewalk. "Shall we go?"

"Indeed." The rosette rises almost to full height, trying, but failing miserably to create a gentlemanly aura he's seen in old movies. "L-Let us be off." Okay, so maybe Crona is a little tired, too. But up the pavement and across the road they move in stumbling, fumbling, shuffling steps, enjoying the easy atmosphere and the ruby, indigo splashed evening sky. Planks of darkened beige wood pass in streak, ridges and knots creating interesting patterns to their peripherals in front of their stationary, plainly-painted destination.

Its multiple stories peak above the sped-blur of timber, even as they turn corner. As if its shutter-closed windows are eyes, watching the teens approach; like a predator awaiting the nearing of its prey, so still; silent. It stands in primly maintained desolation, incompletely hidden by night-splashed lumber. What would pose as a spooky residence of an unknown neighbor does not affect either Maka or Crona as such as they push through the creaking barrier and into the cricks of rocks; pebbles rolling beneath shoed-soles, gritting harshly against others with staggered pressures.

All the while, that brother-like entity whistles the familiar tune of 'Twilight Zone,' breaking away in cackle and deftly unattended by the only one to hear it. Because, yeah, this home was his prison and he still can't find Ragnarok, but Maka is coming with him and she promised... She promised to help find the missing teen, a deal that she would stick by his side. That, in a world of existential oddity filled with solitude and science, is more prominent than the frost that chills and stings at his back with the life-long fear that the Doctor has him.

~O~O~O~

"Take it easy, you don't want to choke on it and ruin years of work, do you?" An arched, thin, flaxen brow ticks in frustration as golden pools take in the pale, hunched form of her partner, chewing, gulping and slurping his meal sloppily in his famish. "Besides, there are some people that still require your particular expertise and you have appointments to uphold."

"Meddy," A heavy swallow seems to echo through the luminous labratory, resounding in revolting waves that makes the blonde woman shiver in stomach-churning repugnance. Medusa shivers as the platinum-maned man speaks through full cheeks, sauces dribbling from the corners of his lips. "With all due respect, I'm fine. We've been over this, love. I'm starving and can't help it." Behind gleaming glass lenses, the man both winks and gives her a repulsively decorated, sheepish smile before shoveling in an over-stuffed forkful of pasta, letting the excess pop and hang from his barely-closed maw.

"Ugh!" Scoffing in distaste, Doctor Gorgon can't help but to stare at the dangling noodles and the alfredo dribbling down slowly. Her hand flexes and extends in twitch, trying to fend of the urge to grab something, anything to make the impending threat of mess to cease. Giving in to the sultry urge, the woman snatches up gauze from the nearby tray, biting at her lip with a force enough to draw blood as she dabs away at his moving chin, struggling to catch every drop as Stein's mastication bars her from easy access, chuckling in stubborn child's joy as her brow creases as if in pain and her irises follow the 'destructive' juices obsessively.

Through overly embellished smacks and jaws working through the unnecessarily thick wad of food in his mouth, Franken sits back, enjoying the sterile-lovers' panic over his own lack of meal decorum. Oh how he revels in the way her poise drains from her being; he adores this woman when her weaknesses are so conspicuous. Can he help it that pushing her buttons brings him some sort of primal satisfaction? Not at all.

Does he care about that in the least? Not at all.

Besides, it only helps his case that she forbade their leave of this place that she works so diligently to keep clean. Something about being 'a superfluous hindrance to the advancement of our research?' The implied preferment makes his brain tingle pleasantly, but the way Medusa is swathing and fussing over him is damned blissful. He sighs, but pasta catches in his gullet making him cough.

To the braided blonde's absolute horror, that single, solitary lung spasm projected flying, partially-chewed noodles and saliva-thinned sauce all over her busy, scowling face and past, onto the previously spotless floor. She stops, doesn't blink, doesn't scream; She just stops. Cottony gauze clenched in her fingertips sway in air-conditioned breeze as her mind fails to process what just happened.

It's a joke, right? There really isn't squishy chunks in her hair or buttery, spiced dairy splattered across her features. It didn't happen. Nope. All thoughts leave her as she just stares blankly, frozen in place.

"Oh dear." Recovered, Franken finishes the portion that stayed in place within his cheeks and swallows nonchalantly. "I think I may have broken her."

~O~O~O~

"Would you mind wrapping this up at some point in the near future?" Exasperated and just a tinge worn from keeping the blue-maned boy in balanced shape, amber eyes close, heavy, ready for sleep just to look back at Black Star from over the top of regulation training pads. "I do need to prepare my things for travel and if I am not mistaken, you are to pick up Tsubaki early tomorrow morning." A right fist plows into the mitt, then a left, thudding in the blows' force as the jade-eyed boy keeps on behind grin-grit teeth.

"Fwsshh!" Another hit. "Fwssh!" And another. Black Star hisses as he exhales, not giving answer, just working the pads and regulating his breath but his grin grows, wide and white as an excited spark focuses on the pitch, obsidian targets.

Kid sighs once more, not surprised that again, for the tenth time that hour, he is speaking only to himself. Though, to be fair, the sounds of silence only interrupted by punches and air in his basement exercise room is... soothing, in a sense. The complete opposite of when the brutish teen opens his mouth. It is a temporary solace, of that the striped noirette is sure.

Perfectly powerful aligned punch after another, over and over again, his stance stays solid, his own arms and core feeling the burn of work out via isolation, balance is his expertise after all. But right now, he should be sorting his college clothes, situating the storage bins filled with necessities, he should be offering his assistance to the two sisters in his guest house as a last gift before his stay in this town is limited to semester breaks and holidays, for they assuredly need it. But alas, he is here, being throttled from behind protective wear as he plays pretend 'punching bag' to this muscle-hound in the dead of night.

"Switch!" With one last swing to make things even, because he is a thoughtful type of big man, Black Star plucks the pads from Kid's raised forearms, simultaneously subjecting the noirette's sweat dampened flesh to the cool blast of the room's air.

"I do not have the time for-"

"Bro,... just hit me." Seriously, this guy needs to chill the hell out. It's not every day that someone with such awesome strength and technique as he just willingly gives his time. Shaking out his perspiration matted azure strands, he waves Kid forward with both rectangular cushion-covered hands. Black Star knows that Kid wouldn't have asked to have this magnificent bro-date if left to his own devices, he's a shy little birdy and if this big star has anything to do with it, will spread those damned scrawny wings before leaving his nest. What can he say? Black Star is a giver of dreams. "Show me what'cha got!" He roars, psyching up the proper stick with his own unfathomable energy.

"If I must." The striped noirette gives a resigned huff, ready to get this over with. Legs sliding apart with a skilled synchronous swish, knees bent, flat palms rise as his bows crease, supporting his arms in the premeditated motions he is about to run.

He breathes a deep, calming breath to still his body, melding it with his mind, letting the tensions drain from his limbs and fill with light, but solid, invigoration as he exhales, blowing away the fatigue.

It is a simple strike, a defensive one, multiple shots in windmill that resound as a single hit. Just his forearms at first, left to Black Star's left and vice-versa, a criss-cross that follows with his the tops of his wrists to frontward corresponding pad and then back to crossed as the composed boy lands blows with the heels of his palms.

It doesn't really look like much; actually, it looks quite simple. But from Black Star's point of view, the rapid attack was freaking intense. After the initial move, Kid's feet didn't even fucking move! And yet, here he is even if he'll be damned to admit it to anyone else, it takes every stocky, fantastic fiber to keep him upright. It is defense, what the scrawny shit is using! Holy shit this is...

Awesome! He is so excited! The way his heart pounds every time he's almost pushed back, every wince he grins through with the pounding at his arms. The adrenaline is such a fucking rush and through jade eyes that are both widened and narrowed that peek behind the black, foamy barriers, the only thing that can seem to come from his smiling-sneered lips is a solitary, growling command. "More!"

They have never switched roles like this before. How have they gone so long without trying it like this? Of course, it was obviously due to fan-service. This stripe-head loves it when Black Star flexes muscle and allows him to be his target. Kid wanted to see his idol all up close and personal-like, it's all gravy... But why didn't the dude tell him he's got some mad clout? Speechlessness in the presence of his god, most likely.

More? This blue headed brute wants more? They've been in here for hours pounding and sweating out their procrastination. It's maddening. Kid has to end this; he needs this to be over. Unfortunately, merely walking away is not an option as Black Star is in his home and will more than likely become a rambunctious, bouncing creator of messes in his attempts to bring him back down here. A twinge of anxious unease washes over him thinking of the possible cluttered catastrophe impending and it makes him nauseous, phantom bile sitting in his throat. No, there has to be another way.

Launching back into yet another six-point defensive sequence, Kid decides that he will appease this blue-maned muscle monkey, throwing his all into landing blocks and forcing more power into the heels of his palms which manages trip up Black Star's stalwart stance into stumble, breaking that fierce smile from his face as the boy's jade orbs narrow further, flashing with some unknown emotion while he begins to cackle maniacally. He can't let this stir him, though. He can't focus on the odd placement of the azure-haired teen's feet, he can't obsess over the staggered heights at which the pads are being held. He needs to finish this and the only way to do that is to assert his strengths. For, this has been a challenge from the very beginning. A trial upon patience, continence, pride and manhood. Oh dear, Black Star! Will you miss Kid when he leaves? Is this your way of holding on? Silly boy.

The moment ear-piercing laughter begins to shake the foam-armed teen, Kid's positions change. Only slightly though, a wider stride, a grin on his face and an unfortunate tick of the muscles beneath his eye as he tries to ignore his disorderly surroundings. The noirette pushes off, his right knee slicing the air in a muffled whip and he extends, the blade of his foot slugging the pad in a jolting second, but he is not done, would never stop at such a despicably numbered point.

With the leverage at his extended limb and the forward momentum cheering his tired body on, he jumps, pushing off the foam in assistance of the twist in his body once he leaves the cement below, left knee at a momentary bend before it stomps in his downward descent, crushing the training pad in a backwards kick that catapults the heel of his foot into the foam and takes the already unbalanced boy to the floor with its impact and "Oomph!"

When Kid lands, his eyes are closed and lungs work in slow, deep, deliberate breaths. The clattering and thumps of training foam and body hitting the ground still echoes, resounding through the spacious expanse of exercise equipment and tall ceiling.

"WOO!" The belted verbal applause jerks Kids depths to startled open and the commotion behind becomes obvious as recovery once the noirette makes his turn and the muscular teen is already standing, sans foam, with both his arms and orbs open; much like a child discovering the delectable properties of sugary treats. "Holy shit, right here bro!" One tanned mitt pats at his puffed up chest in double and Kid cocks his head, not quite grasping what is happening.

"Right here, man! Gimme some!" Black Star hits himself in a more prominent fashion, leaving an imprint of his palm in his dampened shirt. Kid cricks his head in the other direction, unable to help it even though he thinks he understands now.

"I'd rather n-"

"I won't let you deny your dreams, bro!" Not heeding the striped noirette's words, the blue-haired boy scoops up the lithe teen's entire physique, his perspiration invading the normally composed teen's own mostly dry clothes as he squeezes him in a manly embrace of pride, much like a father that has taught his son to throw a football correctly.

"Oh!" Kid stiffens in the torrid grip, trying desperately to think of a happier place than in this sweaty, unpleasantly heated embrace, lids clenched tight and grimace twitching upon his face. "Ha...ha... ha...ha... Thank you?"

"Alright, well..." Thankfully, the brute sets him back upon sweet, sweet ground, his parting gift cooling and sticking upon his own flesh in sickening stench as he seemingly struts over to the exit. "I'm 'a hit it. Got a little Japanese flower to pick up in the morning and make wilt by tomorrow night, so I need my beauty sleep! Laters!" With a parting back-of-the-hand wave, the boy calls from over his shoulder before ducking through the red door in a single, swift motion.

Kid just stands there, noxious odor and wind-chilled perspiration that isn't entirely his clinging to his arms, shoulders, chest, stomach and back through black cotton as he stares at the door.

He's free, yet somehow, the victory feels hollow.

And he is in need of a shower...with scalding, sterilizing water. And maybe, just maybe, some industrial strength bleach.

Through the sectioned corridors of the neatly decorated home, Black star wanders in practiced direction. A turn here, straight through there, stairs up and to the right... His normal path in which will not be utilized again unless he and this boy are in town at the same time.

He's not petty enough to believe that all will continue to be the same and for nostalgia's sake, he wanted to let the uptight kid enjoy himself, let him sweat out his nerves... If only it could be the same for his feisty little sparring partner... But that could never be.

Even as weak as she was, she used her head, attacking him in ways that would make him think, adding intellect into what would generally be a brainless bout of brawn. In that sense, she was a tough one and in all honestly, he will miss her. He misses Maka. The witty little remarks, snide back and forth... Her guts. She had no qualm taking some punches, hell, she even encouraged it!

Warm night air blasts the boy back to his senses and with few blinks, he realizes he's made it to the middle of Kid's stretched, brick-lain drive, where the tall trees end and he is at the mercy of an environmental oven. He scoffs, a grin covering the aching pang in his chest; replacing a guilt-laced sorrow with an emotion easier to handle. Tsubaki will be returning. His little Asian woman with the dignity and servitude to match his station will be back to lavish him in the attentions he deserves and to bask in his overall glory.

Yes. And bask, she will.

~O~O~O~

It is not his fault that he doesn't know how every single speck of filth affects her. Medusa isn't daft, she can see the humor that her... condition can bring and she won't lower herself to punish Franken for just having a laugh. She enjoys his joy, the way his breath puffs out both airy and gritty... But right now, she just... she can't.

Absently her tips trace the slimy damp upon her face, with its spattered and sparse squishing clumps as her depths dim even in the brightness of their lab. The braided blonde doesn't see the blinding light, she sees the flickering streetlight behind busted and cracked glass. She hears the rapid breathing, the sputters beyond the crack of metal lid as she sits cramped, with her sister in the foul dumpster, sure that mice and maggots are having their way with some punctured, oozing plastic bags beneath her sore shins.

An unfamiliar man with frosted lips smiles even as he visibly shakes under the dying light, the constant gleaming of the large, handle-rusted blade a sure sign of this. He is in constant motion, letting out nausea-inducing rasp-filled giggles that whistle and make her stomach turn as they mix with her own father's yells, shaded golden trained on the way her father's hands are held out, trying to keep the man at a calm, at bay... Stalling him, to give the authorities time to find them, to subdue this unfamiliar man that had been stalking them the whole day.

He had said many things about why when her father had asked, so really, there was no clear answer. Maybe they just caught his fancy with their smiles as father had taken them to the carnival, maybe it was the stuffed animals both Arachne and she had abandoned in their panicked run away from this man, left to suck up rain water and the urine of the people of the streets.

But the moment that that drugged out mad-man swipes that large knife at her father, any and all reason flees and she is frozen, transfixed as the blood pours from the line in her father's clean-shaven throat, unreal as the flow stops in stagger when the slice is momentarily staved by his forward lean. The man cackles into the hot evening air, catching her fathers dark brown locks in his twitching fingers, pulling apart the laceration in her father's fall as he is interrupted in his descent groundward.

Sanguine paints the porous sidewalk as the man scuttles into the calignous alley, closer and closer. Arachne is trying to muffle her cries by biting into her knuckle, which dribbles diluted red down her chin as her life's fluid mixes with hysterical tears. But, Medusa can only watch. Confused, terrified, cold, clammy and even still, far too hot; she wavers on the brink of consciousness as the sights before her flicker with neon-white pulses and black at her sockets.

"Heheeeeheheeeheheee!" The influenced man squeals as he drags the deceased senior doctor Gorgon by his scalp, blood spurting out with the last obligatory beats of his heart until nothing is left but drips and the flat amber of his eyes, open wide in the trace emotion of fear, mouth hanging open, void of his smile... His lifeless features, she will never forget.

Unceremoniously, the man drops her father. His body dropping heavily and loose upon the clutter-piled cement, his skull cracking sickly, much like the sound of a watermelon being smashed upon a hard surface. No restraint.

"Funfunfunfun!" The dirty, inebriated man chitters in garble as he plunges the blade into her father's torso, dragging it in jagged non-precise trails, ripping at her dad's torso before he sinks those tremorous, jerking hands into him, pulling at the organs within in vomit-seducing sloshes and slurps, spilling them into the grime-filled ground.

His shaking eyes look around, breaking away from the greying organs and entrails, searching for something. Nonsensical, but making perfect sense to his poison-addled brain.

Suddenly, he gasps, pulling his blood and fecally covered palms from the mess of flesh that used to be her father, clapping excitedly and red splashes everywhere in airborne droplets, painting this man's sheen-slicked, bruise and dirt covered face with crimson, the white of his lips splotched with her father's juices which he licks without qualm of quease.

On his knees, he scuttles over to a pile of recyclable trash, digging through it. Bottles of glass and plastic chink and clunk upon the stone, metal grits and clangs against other metal and the cement below... but wood rolls, giving off a hollow grind as he pulls it from the bottom of the mountain of junk. He raises it in an almost-peaceful looking awe, turning it and inspecting it between jolts. Gapped, broken and rotting teeth become dismally visible as he smiles widely and scoots back in an antsy panic, grabbing at gushy viscera and giving it a sloppy slap with the bat. He falls into a fit of giggles at the splat it gives and the way it hits the brick wall, sliding down before falling to a flop above the ransacked pile of recyclables next to the dumpster housing the two sisters, trying to stay hidden... unable to tear there terrified gazes away.

That man making a mess of her father. That filthy man disrupting the darkness with foul intention and revolting impurity. Medusa just wants her father; she just wants the light... She wants cleansing clarity to absolve this dizzying disarray.

Blankly, as the white luminescence comes back into view, she drags gauze along her face. Scraping away the grime of accidental spray, before soundlessly moving toward her janitorial closet to take care of the small mess with mechanical sloshes of her mop and nose-stinging, astringent cleaner.

After all is said and done and the supplies are replaced, with help from a slightly dazed and confused Stein, she pads into the squared shower room, still clothed, and lets the shocking falls of cold water soak her before shifts to hot and she sinks. Medusa sits upon the tiles, beneath the spray, letting it take away the defilement... that of accident and that of the past.

"Shit, Meddy..." Franken can do nothing but watch through steam-fogged and water splotched lenses. Offering lulling rubs to her back in the bath as he joins her desolate, vacant form beneath the cascade.

_**A/N: **__Hey, sorry it took a bit... My next updates may be a little stalled as well, because of school and kids... and waking up really freaking early and being practically brain dead until I can get into a proper cycle. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Btw, SO MUCH FLUFFY CROMA STUFF! lol. _

_Bleh. _

_Take care, you lovely peoples!_


	12. NOT A CHAPTER!

My computer decided to no longer load, taking with it the latest chapters of **Stolen **and **Love is Tainted**! I am so sorry! Believe me, I am raging pretty hardcore right now.

I hope to have this problem rectified soon.


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